Accessible
by mak324
Summary: Buffy's new boss is an ass. At least that's the way her coworker describes him to her on her first day. And after the way their first official meeting goes, she's pretty quick to agree. He's arrogant, stubborn, an editorial genius and impossibly magnetic. And she's met him once before. *An alternate universe/all human fic.
1. Chapter 1

**-** ** _Monday, June 3rd. 9:10am_** **-**

Buffy was late.

Like really, _really_ late.

Like fall out of bed, skip the shower, stub her toe on the way out the door, nearly break the stiletto on her favorite boots running through the street, lose her brand new job on her first day _late_.

She skidded to a stop in front of the massive high rise building, the address emblazoned across the side matching the crumpled piece of paper in her hand, and shoved her way through a small crowd of people and in through the revolving glass door. She murmured various renditions of "Sorry!" and "Excuse me!" as she went, offering strained, polite smiles, and practicing whatever excuse it was she was going to come up with in her head. Traffic, she figured finally as she made it trough the revolving door, pushing a little too hard and sliding out onto the marble floor of the large lobby, her barely-in-tact heels clicking and clacking as she made a bee-line for the elevator bank. She took one last look at the paper in her hand, noting the correct floor number, then slipped it inside her purse and stuck her right hand out. She began frantically jabbing the little _Up_ button, using her free hand to make sure the tail of her blouse was firmly tucked away into her skirt.

"Come on, come on, come on," she muttered in time with the movements of her hand, the sleak, leather bound notebook her mother had given her for Christmas that past year starting to slip out from where she'd tucked it securely under her arm.

She kind of couldn't believe this was happening. That this was happening, today of all days. _This—_

 _Ding_.

The elevator doors opened just as her notebook fell to her feet, papers sliding out of it and fanning across the floor. For an extended second, Buffy just stared at them, blinking. And then she dropped to her knees to pick them up, scrambling to stuff them back in their little leather holster before shooting back to her feet and promptly bumping into the woman behind her, allowing just enough time to let out a strangled yelp as said woman's coffee spilled down the front of her blouse.

Her favorite cream blouse.

Buffy sputtered, stunned, both by the stain starting to spread across the silky material, and also, hot. Coffee, _hot._

"Oh my _God_ ," the woman seethed, still clinging to the now empty coffee cup and giving Buffy the end all, be all of death glares. "Watch where you're going next time."

Buffy could only nod, dumbstruck, feeling the thin material of her blouse sinking in and sticking uncomfortably against her skin. And hot, still. The woman tossed her one last narrow eyed glare before turning and throwing her coffee cup into the trash can beside the elevator doors, then tossed her hair over her shoulder and stormed inside.

Buffy exhaled a long, slow breath through pursed lips, raising her free hand to pluck delicately at the sticking fabric before she shuffled into the elevator herself. Turning to press the button for 12, she realized that tall, blonde and bitchy had already beaten her to it.

So that. That was just _great_.

Tucking the leather notebook back into her arms as the doors closed, pressing it aainst her chest to cover what she could of the stain, she sighed, leaning her head back against the elevator and thinking that at this rate, there wouldn't be a next time to watch.

A busty brunette looked up as soon as Buffy set foot off the elevator, holding a stack of manila file folders in her arms and tapping her brown suede Minolo impatiently. Leaning one shoulder against the wall, she looked like she'd been standing there for way longer than just the ten minutes Buffy knew she probably had been.

"Oh, are you Elizabeth?" she asked hurriedly as soon as her eyes landed on Buffy, pushing herself up straight and stepping forward.

It took Buffy maybe a half second longer than it should have for her to answer, tucking her leather notebook more firmly against her chest with her left arm. "I…yeah," she said, shaking the brunette's hand and trying to keep the massive coffee stain on her blouse covered. "Yes. I'm...she."

Buffy winced. This was _so_ not her morning.

The brunette smirked at her. "I'm Cordelia Chase," she said breezily, letting go of Buffy's hand and turning on her heel, starting to march back down the narrow hallway. "And you're late."

Oh, come _on_. Of course the first person she'd meet would be her boss. Impeccably styled, curvy, gorgeous, and _young_. Way younger than she'd expected.

Not to mention about a thousand gallons of intimidating.

But at least it wasn't elevator lady.

"I know," Buffy began, hurrying to fall in beside Cordelia, the words leaving her lips in a rush. "I'm so sorry. I honestly, okay," Buffy skirted around a tight corner, half watching where she was going and half keeping her eyes glued to her boss, "I'm not usually one to make with the big excuses or anything but this morning was...well, last night was...I don't normally do things like this. And I'm never late." Cordelia came to an abrupt stop at a small cubicle bank, three miniature cubicles all pointing in toward one another directly in front of a huge glass conference room. Buffy took a deep breath in, let it out. "Ever. I-"

"Elizabeth?" Cordelia asked, cutting her off and raising her eyebrows. The hint of a smile curved her lips.

Buffy swallowed. "Yeah?"

The brunette inclined her head forward, spoke very slowly. "Relax. Deep breath. In…" she waited for Buffy to follow her instructions before nodding and saying, "okay, now out. There." She turned and plopped her stack of papers down on one of the cubicle desks, folding her arms over her chest. "Better?"

"Totally," Buffy lied, hands shaking. She forced her brightest, big girl with a real job smile and gripped her notebook tighter against her chest hoping her new boss wouldn't notice.

No dice.

Cordelia's eyes flicked down to Buffy's hands, then slowly fanned back up to her face. Eyebrows still raised, she said, "We're a publishing house, not the KGB." She reached a manicured hand out and plucked the notebook from Buffy's grip, laying it down with a smack on top of the desk beside hers. "You're ten minutes late. No one's going to make you—" she turned back around and froze, lips forming a perfect "O" as she noticed Buffy's silky blouse and the coffee stain de jour that decorated it.

So, yeah.

"It hasn't exactly been my morning," she offered, reaching her right hand across to rub her left arm up and down sheepishly.

"I can see that," Cordelia offered in kind, the little "O" dropping to form a softer, more sympathetic expression as she turned her eyes back to Buffy's. "Do you want to go home and change?"

Buffy paused, taking a minute to glance down at her blouse. The material was already starting to dry and the coffee stain wasn't as horribly noticeable as it had been initially. She weighed it in her head, wondering if the hour long round trip would be worth it or not.

She plucked at the material and grimaced.

It was tempting. Super, super tempting.

But so was not missing over an hour's worth of work on her first day.

Making up her mind, Buffy shook her head and glanced back up, smiling. "No, it's fine." She reflexively folded her arms across her chest even as she spoke, noticing the brunette's eyes flutter back toward the stain. "But thank you, Ms. Chase, I appreciate you being so understanding."

Brown eyes whipped back to hers. "Oh, God," Cordelia breathed, splaying a hand flat against her chest, "please don't ever call me that again or I _will_ fire you. Cordelia. Just…Cordelia." The brunette leaned forward and bent herself over the short cubicle wall, inclining her head down to whoever was seated at that desk. Buffy couldn't see them from where she stood. "Do I look like a Ms.?" She asked, voice horrified. "Am I officially haggard? It's this goddamn job."

There was a bright chuckle from behind the cubicle wall, and then a tallish, brunette man stood up, stretching his arms up languidly behind his head. "That's what I've been trying to tell you," he said laughingly, brown eyes shining as he twisted his upper body around and folded his arms across the top of the partition. "All work and no play…"

"Make's Cordy a spinstery hag," Cordelia finished for him, voice anguished as she fished in her purse and pulled out a makeup compact, reaching up to press tenderly at the skin under her eyes.

Mortified, Buffy rushed to explain herself. "No, no, I didn't mean...I was just trying to…" She gave up, reaching up to press her fingers against her temples. "Really, really not my morning," she muttered, kicking herself for letting her roommate convince her that today would be the Best. Fucking. Day. _Ever_.

Or whatever it was the other girl had written on the hastily scribbled note she'd left her that morning.

Buffy opened her eyes again and re-focused on her boss, the smiling brown eyed man. "Would it be okay if I sat down?"

"Oh, sure," Cordelia answered, snapping her compact shut and tossing it into her purse. She gestured toward the desk to the left of where she'd tossed her manila folders. "That's your desk. Just put your stuff wherever and feel free to ignore Chuckles the Clown over there."

The brunette man tossed Buffy's new boss a narrow eyed glare before turning his attention to Buffy herself. Smiling brightly, he reached over the partition to extend his hand to her. "Chuckles," he said by way of introduction as Buffy slipped her hand into his. "But most people just call me Xander. And you are…?"

"Elizabeth Summers," Buffy introduced herself, feeling a little more like a fraud than she would have liked to admit in using her full name. "Nice to meet you."

Xander grinned at her, still gripping her hand in his. "Well, Elizabeth Summers," he said, putting a little emphasis on her name and giving her another warm, disarming smile. "Welcome to Pratt Publishing."

"Thanks," Buffy said, giving him the first honest-to-God smile of the morning as he dropped her hand. "Are you in editorial, too?"

He shook his head. "I'm in production, actually." Then he laughed. "Which never fails to get me deadpan looks like _that_ from all the editorial interns."

Buffy checked her expression, realizing she was looking at Xander with a frown and one raised eyebrow. "Sorry," she said, laughing along with him now. "I guess I didn't know 'production' was a thing."

"Oh, it is," he said, nodding. "Very much a thing. Basically I'm on the opposite end of the spectrum from you people and your fancy _words_." He reached a hand out toward both Buffy and Cordelia, wiggling his fingers for emphasis.

"Yep. Xander's part of Pratt's production department. We also have Publicity and Marketing departments and they are…over there." She pointed across the large office space to another arrangement of cubicles. She spotted elevator lady chatting animatedly with another leggy, dirty blonde in a power suit. At another arrnagment of desks, She could see two men were seated and talking with a lost-looking girl that Buffy guessed was another intern.

"Does each department get interns?" She asked, turning her attention back to Xander and Cordelia.

Cordelia shook her head, dropping fluidly down into her desk and crossing her legs. "The program switches off, every six months every other department gets them. This round is editorial— that's you, and marketing." She jutted her chin, inclining it toward the girl across the room. "Which would be her. And I'm sure there are more editorial around here somewhere, but I only take responsibility for you."

"That one looks almost as nervous as you do," Xander joked, still looking at the fidgety girl standing across the room. He turned to grin at Buffy.

"I'm that obvious, huh?" she asked, slowly warming to her environment and the people she'd be spending the next six months working with.

"Everybody's a little nervous the first day." Cordelia shrugged, and Xander nodded. "You'll get over it. But we should probably get started," she said, turning herself into her desk and pulling some of the manila folders out, rifling through them, lifting a massive stack of text covered paper out and setting it over on Buffy's desk. "We have a lot of work to get you up to speed on before you go in to meet Mr. Pratt, so—"

Buffy froze, her throat going instantly, painfully dry.

Meet? Did she say _meet_?

"Meet?" Buffy asked aloud, reaching newly shaking hands out toward the pages in front of her, blinking wide eyes at her boss. "As in...meet. Face to face meet. With the him and me in the same room?"

Cordelia glanced at her, her brow furrowed. "Well, yeah, that was the idea. He meets all the editorial interns on their first day."

Above her head, Xander chuckled and she turned her gaze back toward his. "Likes to get a look at all the fresh meat."

Buffy couldn't tell if he was trying to make her more nervous or less, but the knots in her stomach tightened anyway.

Meet. Meeting Mr. Pratt. Meeting. Face to face.

She swallowed and glanced back to Cordelia. "I'm…" she trailed off, clearing her throat and clamping her hands down around the files in front of her. " _William_ Pratt?"

"Your eye is twitching," Xander told her matter-of-factly.

Buffy blinked. Oh, God, was it?

"Oh my God, it totally is." Cordelia straightened and leaned toward her, brown eyes scanning Buffy's face. "Are you okay?"

Okay. Sure. _Totally_ okay. If being totally okay entitled feeling a little like she was going to vomit all over her brand new desk and all the pages and the pretty, pretty words she was clutching to.

Buffy nodded, swallowed for the millionth time, hated the fact that her nerves always presented in chronic dry mouth and forced a smile. "I'm great," she lied, forcing her fingers to relax. "I just...I don't think I thought I'd actually meet him. And not, ya know, on my first day. All coffee covered and…" she paused, turning her eyes up toward Xander's again. "Do I smell as much like a chocolate dipped espresso bean as I think I do?"

He shrugged off handedly. "More, probably. It's delicious."

"Awesome," she groaned, letting the I'm just hunky dory smile fall and wondering if it was too late to take Cordelia up on that offer to run home and change.

William Pratt, or what she knew about him anyway, had landed him squarely in her potential mentor list as soon as she'd read her first Pratt Publishing novel. He'd been the reason she'd applied for the internship in the first place. The chance to work under him, to possibly learn from him, was…well it was too good to pass up. The man was a genius, with an eye for words and spotting talent that most other publishing houses wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. He'd somehow managed to get five previously rejected manuscripts past Pratt's publishing board in just his first few years as an associate editor. Consecutively. He'd been responsible for getting her all time favorite book published just a few years back. Two of most prolific and successful authors of the last ten years, successful and prolific authors who'd been spurned and turned away from the likes of Random House and Little, Brown before their first books had been purchased by Pratt. Oh, and all five of those previously rejected manuscripts? Had landed somewhere in the vicinity of the New York Times best sellers list. So, she knew he was brilliant. He had to be. Brilliant and with a knack for spotting less-than-obvious talent, which was, admittedly, the other, deep, dark, secret, hidden reason she'd applied there.

Buffy wanted to be in publishing, yeah. She'd been the editor two years running on her university's literary magazine, which had won a few awards while she was on staff. But Buffy herself had also won a few not-so-exciting awards for a couple short stories she'd written and submitted under a pseudonym, and while the editorial side interested her more than the becoming a published author side, it _had_ weighed in her ultimate decision to move across the country.

Pratt Publishing was small but mighty, and quickly becoming a household name. According to everything Buffy knew about the company, it had been founded in the early 80s by Henry Pratt. Not much more than a super minor player in the game for the first fifteen or so years, mostly publishing scholastic works and textbooks, and then suddenly _boom_. It just…took off. Publishing two international best sellers in a row and mining new, undiscovered writing talent left and right. From what she understood, it was all very hush hush, the unofficial takeover of the publishing house. Henry was still the head of the company, still the publisher in word if not deed, had the corner office to prove it and everything. But everyone knew it was William, his son, who was more than likely behind the sudden growth. Worked his way up from being an associate editor to editorial director in the ten years. Hence, yeah. Genius.

Possibly evil genius.

Her mother had encouraged her to apply for the editorial internship when she'd come across it on the website a little over a year ago, toting as the perfect opportunity to "get in on the ground floor", and after a lot of hemming and hawing around it, Buffy had finally decided to go for it, sending in her application to be an editorial intern in December, six months prior to graduation.

She'd figured it was the longest of long shots, but that just applying couldn't hurt.

What was the worst that could happen?

When the phone call came on a Monday afternoon, she'd been shocked. _You start in two weeks. You'll be working under William Pratt's editorial assistant. Dress code is business casual. Don't be late._ She'd barely had enough time to stammer out a weak sounding "Sounds good" before the man who'd called had hung up, leaving her standing in the middle of her mother's empty kitchen in her oversized sleep shirt and a pair of ugly striped socks, eyes as wide as saucers.

She hadn't counted on actually getting the internship. Honestly, until the phone call came, she'd almost forgotten she'd even sent in an application.

It had been that kind of six months.

So she hadn't counted on getting it. Hadn't counted on moving cross country to Boston. Hadn't counted on landing a roommate she was 90% sure _might_ be clinically insane.

And she definitely hadn't counted on ever actually meeting William Pratt himself. She'd sort of figured he was a more a behind the scenes kind of guy, running things from behind the curtain. Elusive, like an editorial version of the Great and Powerful Oz. Not that she didn't have reason to assume that. All the Pratt books she'd read, all the articles she'd been through about the man himself, not one of them had featured a photo. Not _one_.

She figured at most she might take a phone call from him. Get an e-mail. Something more…behind the curtainy.

But no. She was going to meet William Pratt, and she was going to do it looking like this. Buffy shut her eyes briefly, dimly wondering if her resume and her writing samples would be strong enough to outweigh her disheveled appearance.

"Don't worry," Cordelia was saying breezily, turning her attention back to the stack of papers on her desk and drawing Buffy out of her thoughts, the tangles in her tummy tightening more and more by the second. "There's nothing to be nervous about. I mean, yeah," she said, lowering her voice and leaning in toward Buffy conspiratorially, "he's an ass, but he's no more of an ass than any of the other editors here."

Buffy wasn't entirely sure what she'd been expecting the brunette to say, but that wasn't it. So she just nodded numbly and murmured "Great."

"So, you good?" She gestured at the stack of files in front of her. "Can we get started?"

Buffy nodded again, thoughts still reeling, reaching her hand up to absently pluck at her stained blouse again.

"Fab," Cordelia said, smiling, plucking a red pen out of her black pencil holder and placing it on Buffy's desk. "Let's start here."

 **-** ** _Monday, June 3rd. 10:52am_** **-**

Almost an hour and a half into her work, knee deep in some angsty teenage hormone bomb of an unsolicited manuscript about a pair of star-crossed high school lovers, one of whom may or may not have been something of the more para than normal variety, Buffy was firmly in the land of feeling like her brain was about to explode and her eyeballs were going to melt in their sockets.

On the plus side, those nasty, anxious knots? All but forgotten.

"You do this every day?" she asked wryly, glancing over toward Cordelia, her head cradled in her hands.

Cordelia's response was a dry chuckle, an eye roll and a nod. "That's not even the worst I've seen," she said, gesturing with her head toward the stack of paper in Buffy's hands. "But reading his cast-offs beats typing up and sending his rejection letters, or begging media outlets to 'please please, pretty please' review our books."

"You send a lot of rejection letters?" she asked, glancing back down to the page she'd just finished and grimacing.

"Oh, yeah." Cordelia dropped her pen onto her papers and leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms up over her head. "Mr. Pratt's uncanny ability to push no-talent losers past committee and onto the best sellers list has us dealing with a lot of wannabes looking to be his next charity case."

Buffy's brow furrowed. "And he has you read these manuscripts instead of him?"

"No," Cordelia shook her head, thinking it over. "Actually, he always reads at least a little of them first. But, I mean, yeah. He knows pretty quick whether its a yay or a nay, and into the slush pile they go."

From the other side of the cubicle, over the partition that separated Buffy's desk from Xander's, she heard a loud yawn. Then, "Speaking of slush, is anyone else thinking about lunch?" He popped his head over the wall a second later. "I'm famished."

This earned him an eye roll from Cordelia, keeping her eyes on Buffy as she said "It's not even 11:00am, Xander."

Xander glanced down at her. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

Buffy smiled, leaning back in her own chair and listening to the two brunettes squabble light-heartedly back and forth for a few minutes. But the light hearted banter came to a crashing halt a few minutes later when Cordelia's phone rang. A high pitched, bracingly loud trill that cut through the relaxed atmosphere, made both Xander and Cordelia jump as three pairs of eyes dropped to the black phone. One little red light was blinking rapidly. One little red light beside the name William H. Pratt.

Those knots in Buffy's stomach? Back. Way back.

Cordelia cleared her throat and grabbed for the receiver, yanking it out of its cradle and pinning it up to her ear between her neck and shoulder. She snatched up her pen as though ready at a moment's notice to take notes and said smoothly, in a voice Buffy had yet to hear her use, "What can I do for you, Mr. Pratt?"

The call lasted all of ten extremely long seconds, and though Buffy couldn't hear the voice on the other end of the line, she had a pretty good feeling what it was he'd called about when Cordelia's eyes shifted over to her and she nodded once. "Yes, sir. Be right there."

Not even a minute later and Cordelia was leading Buffy to the other side of the office for her dreaded face-to-face with William Pratt.

"He has meetings for the rest of the day so he has to fit you in now," she explained quickly, after already having filled Buffy's head up with a million other "do's and don'ts" for her meeting, leading her down what seemed like an impossibly long hallway for a building she'd been fairly certain wasn't all that wide. They rounded another corner and came up on a long row of office doors, each with a separate bronze name plate and at least six or seven feet between each. The pair came to a stop in front of a door about halfway down the hall. Buffy glanced toward the bronze name plate, still half expecting to see a different name emblazoned on it, looking back at her.

Nope.

"I'm just gonna run in first and make sure he's ready for you," Cordelia said absently, turning and raising her fist like she was about to knock, then pausing, glancing back toward Buffy with raised, perfectly sculpted brows. "Do I need to remind you to breathe again?"

In spite of herself, in spite of the stain on her blouse and knots in her gut and the inevitability of just how train wrecky she thought this whole thing was going to go, Buffy had to laugh. "I think I've got the hang of it now."

Her boss nodded and smiled, straightening her own jacket before raising a hand to knock. There was a muffled sounding acknowledgment from the other side of the heavy wooden door, and she turned the knob, holding a finger up toward Buffy and mouthing the words "One sec" before disappearing into the office.

And then Buffy was alone. But not for long. A half second later and the office door was swinging wide open, Cordelia gesturing emphatically for Buffy to enter, a strained look on her face. Buffy hurried past her and into the office, listening for the door to shut behind her as she took a chance to glance around the room.

In some ways, it was exactly what she'd expected. In others, nothing at all. Large wooden book shelves lined both walls of the narrow room, but none of them were the best sellers he'd helped get published. They were all much older, almost dusty looking, all the bindings brightly colored in reds, blues, greens and mustardy yellows. There was no art anywhere, no pictures, no framed photos on what was left of the wall space. Just books. Rows upon rows of books that managed to make the room seem even more narrow than it was, made everything feel just the insiest bit claustrophobic. The entire office would have been dark, too, Buffy was sure, if it hadn't been for the massive floor to ceiling window that sat behind the sturdy looking desk at the center of the room. The curtains were flung wide open, sunlight bright, streaming into the office and casting a glare into the space Buffy stood in front of the desk, making it momentarily difficult for her to see the man seated behind it. In the wing back chair, hunched all the way over whatever paper it was he was frantically scribbling on.

And then her eyes started to adjust to the sunlight, and she immediately wished they hadn't.

"Mr. Pratt," Cordelia began, standing just behind Buffy as though presenting her to the court. "I'd like you to meet Elizabeth Summers, our new intern."

He didn't stop has frantic scrawling as he looked up at her, furrowed his brow, blinked several times as though to focus his eyes.

And then he froze.

 ** _-Sunday, June 2nd. 10:30pm-_**

He was handsome, she'd give him that. Handsome and slightly just this side of annoyingly persistent as he sat beside her at the bar, elbow on the bar top, chin propped up on the knuckles of his right hand. His eyes did this dancey, sparkling thing when he narrowed them.

He was narrowing them on her now.

"You aren't even goin' to tell me your name?"

Buffy gave him a small half smile and shook her head, reaching for the glass in front of her and raising it to her lips. "I'm just a girl in a bar."

This brought an answering smirk to the stranger's face, and he lowered his hand away from his chin, sitting up straight. "Right," he murmured, voice low and lilting. "That make me just a guy in a bar, then?"

She took another slow sip, let the alcohol burn its way down her throat and into her belly. "It does."

"So, what's that mean?" he asked, voice still low and smooth as he reached a hand out and wrapped it around the glass tumbler in front of him. Swirled the amber liquid around thoughtfully, eyes never leaving hers.

He'd sat down two stools away from her about ten minutes ago, and she'd been waiting for someone else. He'd called over the bar tender and ordered himself some type of fancy schmancy whiskey something-or-other that Buffy had never heard of, then promptly turned to her and asked what she'd be having. She'd told him nothing, but thanks. That she was waiting for her roommate and didn't want to start without her.

He'd turned back to the bar tender and ordered her a double vodka, rocks.

"It means we're just a guy and a girl, in a bar." She lifted her glass to him in salute. "Having a drink."

"And talking?" the stranger pressed.

Buffy's lips twitched. "Mostly drinking."

The man shook his head, brought his tumbler to his lips with his right hand and feathered his left through his artfully disarrayed platinum curls. "I bought you that sodding drink," he reminded her stubbornly, lifting his glass into the air as she had and gesturing with it. "Least you can do is give me _somethin'_ to go on."

There was a pause as she considered him, titling her head to the side, the little alcohol she'd already consumed swirling and burning and buzzing in her head until finally she nodded, dropping her eyes back down to the bar top.

"Fine," she said, tapping her glass with her nail. "I'll give you something. But nothing personal."

Smug, he sat back on his stool, taking another sip of his drink before setting it down again. "Nothing personal."

Buffy kept her eyes down as she thought of what to say next. She could feel the stranger's eyes on her, intent, probably doing that twinkly thing, crinkling slightly at the corners.

She shifted her gaze over to him, saying, "I hate carrots."

His eyes widened. So, not probably what he'd been expecting to hear.

Buffy just nodded, fighting the urge to start giggling uncontrollably. Vodka always made her giggly. "I think they're an ugly color and they take, like, way too much effort to eat."

Beside her, the man's surprise seemed to fade a little as his eyes raked over her face, the corners of his lips curved up in a tight-lipped smirk. "Also a chokin' hazard," he ventured after a moment, casually sipping from his tumbler again.

And Buffy realized she kind of liked the eye thing. "Exactly."

 ** _\- Sunday, June 2nd. 11:37pm -_**

Almost an hour later, and Buffy's newish roommate still hadn't showed.

Not that she minded all that much at the moment.

She was grinning at him as he shook his head, slamming his glass back down on the bar after downing his tequila shot, swallowing the liquor and turning to point an accusing finger at her. "That's bollocks and you bloody well know it."

Buffy raised a brow at him, trailing a finger into the little plate of salt between them and licking it off absently. "Is that even a real word?"

Unfazed, the man shook his head, turning back toward the bar tender and making a gesture for another round as he said, " _Everybody_ likes The Beatles." Then back to Buffy, lowering his voice in disbelief. "Everybody."

Feeling a little smug herself, she just shrugged. "Not me."

And it was true. The Beatles had been her dad's favorite band, so she'd grown up listening to them. Maybe it had been some sort of sensory overload thing, having heard their music just way too much, way too often, as a kid that had made her pretty much despise the iconic band as an adult. Her psychologist would probably have something to say about it. If she'd ever actually bothered to go to him, that was.

"Lemme guess," the stranger said. "Not a fan of the Stones either?" He gave an appreciative nod to the man behind the bar as he set down the second round of tequila in the space on the bartop between them. "Or any other brilliant Brit bands, I'm guessin'."

"There are more?" she asked, frowning as she reached for a fresh wedge of lime and sprinkled it with salt. He'd scolded her the first time around, telling her that isn't the way a "proper" tequila shot is taken. But of the two of them, she hadn't been the one to make with the grimacey face, so she figured she'd stick with her "improper" way.

"Bloody... _Christ,_ woman, of course there're more." He began ticking them off on his fingers as he named them. "The Clash, the Sex Pistols, The-"

"Do all British bands start with 'The'?" she cut him off, brow furrowed as the first round of tequila started to take effect, wrinkling her nose up as she reached for the fresh shot glass.

His hand fell back down to the bar top with a smack and he blinked at her, looking momentarily confused. "Only the good ones."

Buffy sputtered a little this time, the tequila getting stuck on her tongue just a second too long before she could swallow it. She slammed the glass down and made funny _yeeaagh_ sound, closing her eyes and shaking her head, grabbing for her lime wedge and biting down into it.

When she opened her eyes again, the man was looking at her with a raised eyebrow, long, dark lashes fluttering as if to say _I told you so_.

She frowned at him, reached up to wipe her lips and said, "So just the four you mentioned?"

This wiped the smug expression right off his pretty face. Cheeks hollowed, jaw ticking, he cocked his head to the side. "Right. And I'm sure you know all the greats." He grabbed up his own shot and downed it, and Buffy watched, a little impressed when he neither made a blegh face nor reached for his lime. "NSYNC and the sodding Backstreet Buggers."

"I'm more of a Zeppelin fan myself," she lied breezily, reaching for and going with the only classic rock band she could manage to remember at the moment. Not looking at him, she kept her eyes down on her own drink and waited for his reaction.

A long moment later. "You little liar."

Buffy burst out laughing.

 **-** ** _Monday, June 3rd. 12:24am_** **-**

"Still haven't told me what brings you to Boston," he said, fingering the neck of his beer absently as he watched her, eyes glued to the side of her face.

Instantly, her alcohol muddled senses went on high alert.

"Still?" she asked, glancing toward him and raising both brows. "I thought we agreed—nothing personal." She shifted on her bar stool, angling herself toward him and quickly deflecting. "Besides, I should be asking _you_ that, Brit Boy."

For a moment, Buffy thought he wasn't going to say anything to that. But then he relaxed, his shoulders sagging as he swiveled around on his stool and leaned back onto the bar, elbows propping him up and his eyes on her. "Moved here when I was just shy of twenty-five," he began to explain, two long fingers still wrapped around the neck of his bottle, "Took a job workin' for my father."

This earned a furrowed brow frown from Buffy. "Here?"

The man chuckled, and she thought she might kind of like the sound. Or maybe tequila thought she might kind of like the sound. _Something_ in her liked it. She stared at him, watching as he nodded.

"Yep. Dear old dad's a yank."

Buffy went silent, thinking this over for a little while. They'd agreed, nothing personal. She'd _made_ him agree to that. Not for any real good reason other than that's what Faith had told her she should do. _"_ _Boston guys can be pushy,"_ she'd explained when they'd made plans to meet up for celebratory drinks tonight _. "Most of 'em won't take no for an answer, so keep your cards to yourself. Don't get too personal. Keep it breezy."_

Honestly, Buffy hadn't really been sure what she'd been trying to say. If her new roommate thought she was the type of girl to…get "personal" with a random stranger at a bar, she still had a lot left to learn about her. Still, for whatever reason, she'd found herself halfway following the other girl's weird advice. But since when had Faith been the shining paragon of good decisions? Buffy'd known her, been living with her, for all of a week and so far she hadn't done a whole lot to inspire confidence in that particular arena.

Buffy drummed her hand on the bar top, a staccato rhythm as she bit down on her bottom lip and considered what all could possibly go wrong if she just got a _little_ personal.

Sighing, releasing her lip, she shifted her gaze to the bleached blonde's. "I moved here for a job."

His eyebrow arched, cocking his head to the side. "You too, eh?"

She nodded, nibbling lightly on her lip again. "I just graduated, from college? A couple weeks ago, actually." He raised his bottle to her in a congratulatory gesture and she shrugged, giving him a small smile. "Packed up and came here pretty much right after."

He cocked his head to the side, appraising her from the short distance between them. "You move here all on your lonesome then?"

Buffy looked at him, then nodded, feeling weird, awkwardly exposed now to the stranger sitting beside her. "That obvious?"

"When do you start this job of yours?" he asked her in lieu of a responding to her question, shifting his eyes away and tilting his bottle back to his mouth.

Buffy sighed and hoped the noise didn't give too much away. "Tomorrow, actually."

He pulled his bottle away from his lips at that, swallowing and nodding his head and looking like he wanted to laugh as he gave her a closed-lip grin. "So naturally you're out at a pub at midnight, tossin' back shots and chattin' up dashing strangers?" He gave her a real smile then, and she noticed he had dimples.

"Naturally," she replied, wondering if he could tell just how completely, totally, other side of the world far from natural any of this was for her.

If he did notice, he didn't say. Just returned to running his thumb and forefinger along the neck of his beer in a gesture Buffy felt sure was unintentionally seductive, his eyes trained on hers. "Can I ask which of this city's many fine establishments you'll be startin' at?"

She opened her mouth immediately to respond, thought better of it and clamped her lips shut again. Off his furrowed brow, she gestured between the two of them with her right hand. "Personal?"

His widened slightly and then he nodded, chastened, and turned to look away from her. "Right."

An awkward beat passed between them and she looked down at the bar, wrapping her hand around the half empty glass in front of her that she'd actually stopped drinking half an hour ago.

"Although," she said after a minute, thinking that maybe, maybe, she wouldn't mind seeing a flash of his dimples again. She shifted her eyes to his and eyed him through her lashes. "If we are going to do the personal thing...I'm kind of dying to know what exactly is going on here." She reached a hand up and gestured toward the gelled platinum curls, fighting the sudden, overwhelming urge to wrap the errant one beside his ear around her index finger.

He chuckled warmly, dimples showing and eyes twinkling as the tension between them vanished and she dropped her hand back down. " _That_ is a long story, luv," he told her simply, his voice low, and took another swig from his bottle.

Buffy looked at him, her expression falsely sympathetic and wrinkled her nose. "You lose a bet?"

"Actually, yes." And at the stricken look on her face, he burst into loud, unrestrained laughter. Several people on the other side of the bar stopped what they were doing to glance their way, and Buffy felt herself shrinking down a little on her stool.

The blonde man, however, didn't seem to notice. Or if he noticed, he certainly didn't care.

"It was twelve years ago," he told her, still laughing a little and angling himself more fully toward her. "Just after I moved state-side."

Buffy couldn't help herself. Curiosity piqued, she leaned toward him and asked, "What was the bet over?"

"Ah, ah, ah," he scolded her lightly on a rumbling purr, wagging one of the fingers he'd had wrapped around the neck of his bottle and leaning in toward her. "Personal, yeah?"

She narrowed her eyes at him but nodded anyway, feeling caught in her own stupid game. Or, Faith's stupid game. Whatever.

"Anyway," he continued, dropping his eyes down to the bottle in his hand, a slow smirk curling his lips as he thought it over. Reliving the memory right there in front of her, it seemed. And then he shrugged. "Ended up likin' the look so bloody much I kept it."

His lashes fanned back up and his eyes met Buffy's again.

She let herself look at him now. Really look at him. Takin him in, the space of one lone bar stool still separating them. She could see it now, the "look" he was referring to. Simple black v-neck, faded blue jeans, a pair of well-loved motorcycle boots. Chunky silver chain around his neck, a matching one around his wrist, and both hands adorned with silver rings. The eyes, the cheeks, the hair. It was a definite look. Not a look she would have picked out if she hadn't been staring right at it, seeing how much it could work, but a definite look just the same.

She focused in on his eyes again and raised her half-empty glass to her smiling lips. "It suits you."

Because it did.

"Yeah?" Another mischievous eye twinkle, a smirk. "Tell that to my father."

 **-** ** _Monday, June 3rd. 1:17am_** **-**

In the end, she decided it was the alcohol she'd consumed that made her do it. Say it. The alcohol and the fact that he'd gotten progressively closer to her as the night wore on. Starting out with two seats in between them. Then only one. Until now, they sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, both their final round of drinks nearly finished and sitting half-forgotten on the bar top in front of them as she threw her head back and laughed, loudly, at a story he'd just told about his "university" days.

She dropped her head, still chuckling, and watched his profile as he took a sip from the water glass the bar tender had placed in front of him.

Yeah, it was the alcohol. And the fact that he smelled like mint and cigarettes and the whiskey he'd been drinking and possibly some kind of aftershave, too, because his face was so, so smooth and before she knew it she was saying it, her voice a low murmur as she looked up at his profile.

"Buffy."

He set the glass down and said, not looking at her, "Bless you."

"No," she laughed again, twisting herself on her stool, her knees bumping against his, denim on denim. " _Buffy_. It's my name."

"Oh," he said, eyes widening in realization, eyebrows arched high. A second later, the smirk was back. "Right then." He stuck his right hand out across his body toward her. "Name's Spike."

She took his hand in hers and let him shake it. His grip was firm, hand chilled at the fingertips from the cold glass he'd been holding. " _Spike_?" she asked, quirking a brow and letting her fingers slip away from his.

 _"_ _Buffy_?" he countered, his voice matching hers.

She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"So, Buffy," Spike began, lashes fluttering as he leaned his elbow back down onto the bar top and propped his chin back on his knuckles, the way he'd done when he'd first noticed her sitting there. "How'd a girl like you get saddled with a name like that?"

She snorted, shifting back on her stool so she could see his face better. "You're one to talk." She poked him square in the shoulder. "Are you gonna tell me where the name Spike came from?"

He reached up, lightning quick and covered her hand with his, squeezing it against his shoulder as his eyes met and held hers.

The moment that passed between them lasted much too long for Buffy's comfort. Eyes glued to one another, his hand warm and strong around hers, the alcohol still buzzing just numbingly enough through her veins to make her head light.

She didn't know why she'd come here tonight, really. True, Faith had suggested it, had decided they needed to celebrate Buffy's new job and their new roommate status in style before she started work and got too busy. But Buffy figured now, especially now, she'd kind of known Faith wouldn't show up. So why she'd still come, why she'd _stayed_ , was a little bit of a mystery to her. Whether it was to drink and be alone, or to drink and be with others. To spend some time thinking about where exactly her life was headed or what she actually wanted to get out of the internship she'd blindly accepted. Maybe just for a break from reality. She needed a break from that about now. Everything since graduation had been such a whirlwind, and now she was here in a city she was a stranger to, starting a job she wasn't sure she wanted and living with a crazy person. Missing home. Missing her life. Missing her Mom.

That was it, probably. In the end it when he finally let go of her hand and tore his eyes from hers, she'd all but forgotten whatever question it was she'd asked him. He hadn't forgotten though, because he was in the middle of responding.

"I'd love to, kitten," he said silkily, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket and digging the appropriate amount of cash out, Buffy noticed, to pay for both their drinks, and laying it flat on the bar top. His eyes shifted to hers once more, the right side of his mouth curving up. "But you aren't ready to know."

Buffy gaped at him, blinking rapidly, alcohol infused indignation fueling her as she leveled a stern look at him and said, "I'm ready."

But Spike just shook his head and swiveled around on his stool, planting his feet on the floor and standing up. "Don't think so, pet."

Annoyed, cheeks flushing hot. After all the talking and the hours and the, the flirting he'd done with her he was just going to get up and leave?

"What?" she asked, frowning at him, swiveling around on her own stool to watch him go. "Why not?"

He came to a stop in front of her, turning and hooking one thumb through his belt loop. "Well, just look at you." And he did then. God, did he ever. Slowly, deliberately, the expression on his face somewhere between cool amusement and undisguised hunger. She watched him, confused, her mouth going dry as he let his eyes travel over her body. Starting at her hairline and rainy down to tips of her toes, slowly back up. His lips twitched. "All fresh faced and doe-eyed and innocent."

Checking herself, realizing her lips had parted slightly as she'd watched him watching her, she shook her head to clear it, scoffing and willing the light-headedness from the alcohol to go away. "And what," she demanded, folding her arms over her chest, "telling me how you got the name Spike is going to 'corrupt' me?"

This had his smirk widening. "Ah, that's the rub, innit." He flicked his tongue out over his lip, then smiled, tucking it up behind his top teeth before leaning in and whispering, "Can't tell you, luv. Have to show you."

Things were tense between them for a moment as he pulled back from her, his eyes dropping down and settling on her mouth.

And then Buffy laughed. Long, loud, effectively wiping the smug smirk right off her handsome not-so-much-a-stranger's face.

"Oh, please," she breathed, digging into her own purse for a wad of cash to leave behind her as a tip, more than ready at this point to just go home. "Does that line _ever_ actually work?"

Spike just cocked his head to the side and let his eyes do their unfair little twinkly thing. "Like a bloody charm."

Buffy shook her head, slapping a ten dollar bill down with more force than necessary onto the bar top before zipping her purse and hopping down off her stool. "Wouldn't work on me."

Something was funny. Either what she said or the slight little wobble in her knees as her feet had landed on the bar's floor, she wasn't sure, but something she'd done amused him, because he gave her a rumbly chuckle, squinted his eyes and said, "That right?"

Buffy just nodded, feeling smug herself, hauling the strap of her purse up onto her shoulder and folding her arms across her chest again. "Yep."

Another pause as they eyed each other, neither of them moving. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Buffy recognized the time. How late it was. That coming out tonight in the first place hadn't been a good idea, and that she needed to get home. But she was a little stuck. Frozen to the spot by a heady combination of the flashing neon lights behind the bar, the smoky air, the very distant anxiety she'd come in with tonight that she couldn't seem to remember at the moment and whatever was left of the alcohol in her system.

"Funny," Spike finally breathed, stepping directly into her personal space, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep her eyes on his. His lashes fanned down, fluttered, swept back up. "Coulda sworn it already was."

Her knees wobbled again, and she knew she needed to get back home. Now.

 _Right now._

"Not as well as you'd think," she told him simply, not sure how much of it was a lie and how much was denial, tearing her gaze away from his and unfolding her arms, side-stepping around him.

He didn't come after her. Didn't call her name. Not that she'd wanted him to, because she most certainly did not.

She didn't think.

No, no, she most definitely did not. It was better this way, anyway, she reminded herself as she weaved her way to the front of the bar. It hadn't even been a good idea to come out in the first place.

And this was probably a thing he did. Like, a shtick or whatever. Sit next to the lonely little girl at the bar, buy her drink, play her game. End up disarming her with funny stories and bad taste in music and the silky accent a-and the twinkly eye dimple thing.

Yeah, so definitely. Better this way.

Still, she couldn't resist one last look. Pausing with her hands on the door, she turned and glanced back over her shoulder.

Spike was already gone.

 **-** ** _Monday, June 3rd. 11:25am_** **-**

Buffy was frozen to the spot, the exact same way she'd been frozen the night before. Of course last night those blue eyes had been pinning her with an entirely different sort of intensity than they were now, but still.

 _Still_.

Oh, God, this wasn't happening.

But it was. It was, and her hands were already flying automatically to cover the stain on the front of her blouse. Spike just stared at her, dark brows knit together, blinking in what she could only guess was utter disbelief. She didn't think either of them planned on every seeing each other again.

Not after…everything.

"Miss Summers," he finally managed, checking his shocked expression, trading it in for something a little more verging-on-irritated as he sat up straight and lay the ballpoint pen down over his papers. "Welcome to Pratt Publishing."

She couldn't think of anything to say. Literally, nothing. Nothing that wouldn't sound strained or panicked or be just too big with the massively embarrassing. Her head was spinning, spinning, spinning, struggling to put two and two together. She stared blankly at the man she'd spent hours with the night before and tried, vainly, to reconcile the man she'd met last night with what she knew of the man William Pratt was supposed to be.

Surprise. Surprise, shock, confusion. No, she couldn't think of anything to say, so she just cleared her throat and said, "Thank you, Mr. Pratt."

She watched his eyes change as she said his name, flashing, darkening. He sat back in his chair then, placing his elbows on his armrests and steepling his hands together. And there it was, the slightest hint of the smirk she'd seen so many times the night before. If the carefully slicked back platinum hair hadn't been the dead giveaway she needed to confirm that he was, in fact, the same man from night before then the smirk. The smirk would have been.

She swallowed.

Then, blithely, his tone taking on an almost bored quality he said, "Have you finished with the manuscript Cordelia gave you this morning?"

Buffy's eyes widened as he leaned forward and picked up his pen, resumed scribbling whatever it was he'd been scribbling when he'd walked in.

Feeling even more confused now, she started to answer, not having even the slightest clue what the right answer here was. "I, uh…" she glanced over her shoulder toward Cordelia, who was shaking her head and looking just as confused as Buffy felt. She turned back forward. "I mean, if by _finished_ you mean—"

"It's a simple question, Miss Summers." Spike didn't bother looking up at her, just shuffled the stack of papers in front of him and promptly began scrawling on that as well.

And it bothered her. A lot.

There were a lot of things Buffy was great at dealing with. Nervousness, not among them. But the one thing she handled even worse than a bad case of the butterflies? Being confused. His behavior was confusing her and it bugged, his casual, cold demeanor burrowing under her skin and making it feel like it was stretched too tight.

"No," she said finally, forcing her voice out flat and steady even as her cheeks flushed hot. "Not yet."

Spike nodded, still not looking up. "Cordelia? Will you give us a minute." He set his pen down once more and reached over toward a stack of file folders, thumbing through the first few before plucking one out and setting it down in front of him. "I have a few questions for our newest intern." He opened it up, and Buffy could see from where she was standing that he was fiddling with her cover letter, could see his thumb brushing under her hand written signature. Then he flipped the page, eyes pouring over what she recognized as being her resume. It was her file. Her stomach churned just as he brought his gaze level with hers. "Want to see if she's as sharp in person as she appears on paper."

Buffy sucked in a deep breath and waited for Cordelia's response. She'd told her before going into his office that he never spent time with the interns, that he met them as a courtesy, that he hardly ever even remembered their names and only ever dealt with them if they'd managed to make some kind of apocalyptic mistake. And even then, it was only to fire them. _"_ _He sort of hates the internship program,"_ Cordelia'd explained dismissively, waving her hand _. "Thinks it's a waste of time and resources, blah, blah, blah."_

So this, right now, wasn't normal. Buffy knew it, and if she knew it, Cordelia certainly did too. So she waited for her to say something.

She didn't.

The only answer Buffy's ears were met with was shuffling of fabric followed by the soft clicking sound as her boss shut the heavy office door, and then silence.

A beat passed.

"You told me your name was Buffy." His voice wasn't bored anymore, but she couldn't exactly place the new emotion in it either.

"I…it is."

"Not accordin' to your resume," he said, picking up the file he'd been thumbing through and waving it at her meaningfully, " _Elizabeth_."

Oh. That's what she was hearing in his voice.

Anger.

And here Buffy thought she'd be getting fired the first day for being late. If only life could ever be that straight forward. Hers had a nasty way of always becoming twisty.

"Buffy is…" she struggled for the right words, her hands still clasped awkwardly together over the coffee stain. "It's a nickname. My family and friends call me that. I just didn't think it was exactly…work appropriate, or something." She paused to catch her breath, noticed the hard set of his features, the thin line his lips were forming and remembered all at once that he wasn't the only one who had a right to be angry here.

Forgetting how much higher on corporate ladder he was than she, she took an impulsive step forward, lowering her hand to jab an accusing finger his direction. "And what about you, huh? You told me your name was _Spike_."

Unflinchingly, not moving a muscle or barely batting an eye, he told her, "It is."

Buffy exhaled a short burst of hot air through her nose, rocking back on her heels and crossing her arms. "Not according to your nameplate."

Because the nameplate sitting at the front of his desk most definitely still read William H. Pratt, and nothing anywhere near, not even in the _vicinity_ of Spike.

Which only reminded her that she kind of felt sick.

Sick, and still mad and confused and where the hell did he get off looking at her like that, anyway? Like she was the only one who hadn't been completely honest. Because, obviously, exhibit A sitting behind the big wooden desk, not the case. And exhibit A was currently leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed on her. "Spike's a nickname." He raised his brows and lowered his voice. "Remember?"

His words had her freezing again, cheeks flushed, chest tight. She remembered. She very much remembered, which was sort of the problem at the moment.

 _"_ _I can't tell you,"_ he'd said. _"_ _I have to show you."_

 ** _-Monday, June 3rd. 1:35am-_**

He must have gone out the back door, she figured. There wasn't any other way he could have beaten her to the curb.

He was waiting for her when she stepped out onto the sidewalk. Had already hailed a taxi, and was standing beside it, one hand in his jeans pocket. He was holding the door open and giving her that little smirk.

"Quite the gentleman," she murmured, pulling her purse further up onto her shoulder, failing to keep the small smile off her lips.

"Feel right guilty, leavin' you to get home by yourself." He shrugged casually as she stepped up beside him. "New city and all."

She smiled again at him, nodded, skirted around him to slide into the back of the cab. Then she leaned out of the door, looking up into his face. "You want to share?" she asked, wondering if it was a mistake even as he words left her lips.

Spike gazed down at her, tilting his head to the side. "I dunno, pet. Sharing a cab." He clucked his tongue at her. "Sounds awfully _personal_."

"It's a big seat," she teased him. "Plenty of room to be as non-personal as possible." And she grinned up at him before sliding along the back seat, shifting until she was on the opposite end and providing him with enough space to slide in beside her.

He did.

And as soon as the taxi door slammed shut, he was on her. Hands tangling in her hair, holding her to him as he kissed her. The tips of their tongues touched, his, oaky and astringent with whiskey and another heady hint of cigarette smoke. Buffy moaned into his mouth, and it was all over.

 ** _-Monday, June 3rd. 11:35am-_**

"Now that _that's_ out of the way," Spike began slowly, leaning forward and pressing his palms flat onto his desk, pushing himself to his feet. Buffy watched him from where she stood as he ducked his head, moving around the edge of his desk until he reached the front, standing directly in front of her. "What is it you want, then?" he asked her, keeping his tone light, clipped. Casual. He crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk, hooking one ankle over the other as he gazed at her, eyes narrowed. "Money?"

He might as well have slapped her. It would have been less shocking.

Buffy took an impulsive step back, blinking at him, lips slightly parted as she tried to understand what he was saying. "E-excuse me?"

Her response must have been one of legitimate shock, because he nodded like he believed her. "Not money then. Okay." He uncrossed his arms and braced his hands on the edge of his desk, long fingers curled around the wood ledge on either side of his hips. "A manuscript? You have a novel you want me to publish, make you right bloody famous?"

Oh, yeah. He was angry, alright. And getting angrier by the second if the rising pitch of his voice was any indication.

Buffy was only getting more confused.

"I don't…Sp—" She caught herself, clearing her throat and straightening her pencil skirt. More for something to do than anything else. _Not_ Spike. Your boss. Your _boss's_ boss. _William Pratt._ "Mr. Pratt," she amended, feeling like an absolute idiot, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Because she really, _really_ didn't.

"Right," Spike said, his voice low, chuckling. Not the warm rumbly chuckle from the night before, but darker. Not at all like he actually thought anything was funny. "Sure you don't."

It was way too wiggy for her, seeing him like this. The faded jeans had been replaced by a pair of well-tailored grey slacks, the black t-shirt done away with in favor of a pressed black button down and a red silk tie. His platinum curls tamed, slicked back where before they'd been artfully disarrayed. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to just below his elbows, an expensive looking watch having replaced the chunky silver bracelet around his right wrist. The several silver rings he'd been wearing, too, were missing now.

And Buffy froze again, for what felt like the hundredth time, as she zeroed in on his fingers.

Yep, the costume jewelry-ish rings were all gone, and in their place was just one. One very specific _one_ , on his left hand.

 _Oh._

Buffy's hand flew to her mouth, pressing against her lips even as her stomach flipped, rolled over, all the alcohol she'd drunk the night before threatening to come back up all over the gorgeous oriental rug she was standing on.

"You're _married_?" she breathed from behind her hand, taking a step back on slightly wobbly legs.

Spike's expression remained cold. "Like you didn't already know that," he told her flatly, his eyes scanning her face. Buffy shook her head, her eyes wide, hand pressing more firmly against her mouth. And she saw it when it happened. When the man standing in front of her realized he was wrong. His eyes widened, eyebrows arching up and he pushed himself back to his feet. "You didn't already know that."

No. God, of _course_ not. How could she have known that? She didn't even know who he _was_ last night! I mean, sure, she knew William Pratt was married. She knew she knew that. She'd read about it, hadn't she? Her head spun as she tried to nail down the facts, what she remembered reading. Yes, yes she did know William Pratt was married.

She just hadn't known _Spike_ was William Pratt.

If she had she never would have…things never would have…

On his feet now, he took a cautious step toward her. "You're tellin' me you had no idea who I was when you started chattin' me up last night?"

Buffy couldn't form words, didn't trust herself to form words, so she just shook her head no.

"So…this." He raised a hand and gestured between the two of them with his pointer finger. "With you, being an editorial intern, this…is a complete and total coincidence?"

Twisty. Twisty, twisty, twisty life. Buffy blinked, long and slow, and nodded. "Yeah."

Spike frowned, planting his hands on his hips. "You aren't blackmailing me."

It wasn't a question, but Buffy felt compelled to shake her head no again anyway. Her eyes had snapped back to his left hand, the ring on his finger. The ring she knew for a fact hadn't been there last night.

Her stomach heaved again.

And her thoughts flew to her family. To her mother, to her little sister Dawn. It was Dawn's words that echoed in her ears now, as the seconds dragged on, the little clock on the book shelf to her right ticking them off like a metronome in the silence surrounding them. _You have to take the internship if you get it, Buffy._ _It's what Mom would have wanted for you._

And then, when she'd gotten it. _She would have been so proud._

 _Yeah_ , Buffy thought now, blinking her eyes closed. _I'm sure this would have made her_ real _proud_.

"Why don't you sit down?" Spike asked her suddenly, making her eyes flutter open, lashes sticking together slightly as they did. His voice was completely different now. Softer, gentle. He was standing beside the chair in front of his desk, gesturing toward it.

And all Buffy could think about was how she had to get out of here. Now. Right now.

She shook her head, pulling her hand down from her mouth. "I should…"

Spike stepped toward her. "Buffy."

"...go," she finished, stepping backward, wondering if she turned and high tailed it out if this would all just go away. Or maybe she could quit. Just up and quit before he could fire her. That might work, too. "I should go. I have work to do. For you." A high-pitched, half hysterical giggle tore from her throat, her eyes starting to burn. "Work for you…so I should go do that work. For you. Now."

 _Right now._

"Buffy, sit down."

She turned her back on him and started for the door. "I have those manuscripts to go through, so I'll just-"

His voice caught her, halting her in mid-step, her hand on the door knob. "Sit down, Miss Summers." She glanced at him over her shoulder, and he inclined his head toward her. "Don't make me ask again."

Or, ya know, he could just fire her right here and now. That was also an option.

Swallowing hard, Buffy turned back around to face him, walking slowly back toward him and the chair in front of his desk. Sinking down into it, she kept her eyes glued to a loose thread coming out of the rug and safely away from his eyes.

When he spoke again, it wasn't even close to what she'd been expecting to hear him say. "I'm sorry."

Instantly, her eyes shot up to find his.

"For assuming you…" he trailed off, sighing, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his neck. "Just wouldn't be the first time someone's tried, is all."

The rolling in her stomach, which up to this point had been pretty much constant, came to a wild, screeching halt as she registered this new information. _Wouldn't be the first time…_

Oh, _God_.

And now Buffy felt slightly sick for an entirely different reason. She stared at him, her voice coming out sounding hard, more bitter than she meant for it to. "This happen a lot with your interns, _Mr. Pratt_?"

His hand dropped, the almost sheepish expression melting away at the tone in her voice. "Truthfully, I rarely take any interest at all in the interns, _Miss Summers_." He thought it over, then shrugged. "'Less it's to tell one of 'em what a bloody screw up they are." His gaze narrowed just slightly, his voice lowering, tinged with a harder edge. "And if you're askin' me if I make it a regular habit to cheat on my wife, the answer is also no, I don't." He cocked his head to the side, appraising her openly. Buffy attempted to pull her skirt down further over her knees. "Doesn't mean I haven't had a doe-eyed little aspiring writer try and tempt me into it once or twice."

Buffy frowned more deeply at him, brow furrowing. "I wasn't-."

"Didn't know you were an intern then anyway, did I?" He kept on, cutting her off like she hadn't even spoken and moving back around to the other side of his desk. He didn't sit though. Just hovered, leaning his knuckles onto the wood and meeting her gaze with wide eyes. " _Someone's_ barmy rule 'bout not sharin' anythin' personal."

She gaped at him, a scoffing sound passing her lips before she could think to try and stop it. Hell, she was more than likely all with the fired anyway. Might as well go down swinging. "So this is _my_ fault now?" She demanded hotly, glaring at him, her hands finding the arm rests of her chair as though she might actually launch herself out of it and over his desk if he thought he was going to blame this whole stupid thing on her.

He pushed off his desk, gesturing with a sweep of his arm toward her. " _You're_ the one who insisted—"

Her nails dug into the chair, lowering her voice as her jaw clenched and she cut him off. "And _you're_ the one that kissed me first."

A long pause as they stared at each other, her cheeks hot, his expression annoyingly impassive. Then his lips twitched, his eyes sparked, and he murmured a low sounding "Got me there."

Quickly growing far more irritated than disgusted, Buffy kept staring at him, her eyes narrowed so far on him that they were almost itty bitty slits, impatient now, wanting to cut to the chase. Mentally preparing to do a walk-of-shame, of sorts, back to her desk and grab her little leather bound notebook, go back to her apartment, explain to Faith what happened and book a flight back home to California, she sighed. "So, what now?"

"What now…what?" he asked, his voice back to being casual as he dropped into his chair and turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.

Buffy stared at him blankly. When he didn't look back up at her, but instead picked up his pen and began shuffling through his files, she leaned forward and blurted out, "Am I fired?"

Spike looked up then, looking at her askance, his expression genuinely confused. He shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "Why the bloody hell would I fire you for? I didn't know who you were, and if you're tellin' the truth, you didn't know who I was. It was a _mistake_. Mistakes happen." He raised a scarred eyebrow at her. "And if you're _smart_ , mistakes only happen once." He dropped his eyes back to his desk, leaning forward, his left hand moving furiously over a page full of text. "If you're half as talented in person as you are on your resume, pet, least I can do is keep you on until you do somethin' worthy of bein' sacked, yeah?"

 _And helping you cheat on your wife, that doesn't fall squarely in the fireable offense column?_ "O-kay."

He flicked his eyes back up to hers, eyeing her from under long, dark lashes. "Gonna be able to get back to work now?"

Blinking at him, her lips forming an angry little "O" as her lashes fluttered, Buffy bit down on the inside of her cheek, on all the words she wanted so desperately to say, and forced herself instead to think of her Mom. Of Dawn. Her favorite professor back at school. And then she nodded, figuring, truthfully, this might be the last actual face-to-face she'd have to do with Spike…William…ugh, _whoever_ he was, at least while she was an intern. Six months. Yeah, one night could totally blow over in six months.

She could do this. It would be fine.

 _It was a mistake._

Buffy stood up and smoothed her skirt down, turning on her heel and making a quick bee-line for the office door. She'd almost made it, her fingers just closing around the knob for the second time when his voice stopped her once more.

"Oh, and Miss Summers?"

Buffy stopped, hand gripping the knob and turning her eyes up to the ceiling before glancing, for the third and hopefully final time, over her shoulder at the man she'd imagined would be her mentor and imagining that particular dream fluttering on little butterfly wings out the window.

He glanced up, just the hint of a smirk on his lips. "I expect that finished manuscript on my desk by 2:00pm."


	2. Chapter 2

**_-Monday, June 3rd. 2:10pm-_**

Buffy stood in the long hallway of offices for the second time that day. Only this time, she'd been sent there alone. She held the finished manuscript tucked under her left arm, her right hand raised, knuckles poised over the wood. Ready to knock. She'd been ready to knock for the last fifteen minutes. Mouth slightly dry, hands shaky.

Her eyes were glued down to the bronze plate again.

 _"_ _Alright, spill," Cordelia demanded as soon as Buffy exited Spike's office that morning. Her eyes were wide, searching her intern's face as she ushered her back down the hallway and safely around the corner. "What was_ that _all about?"_

 _Buffy froze, gaping at the brunette. Oh,_ God _, had they been that obvious? Or, okay, even worse had she been_ listening _? She opened her mouth once, then shut it. Again. And then she was talking, not really hearing the words as they tumbled out. "Oh, he…Mr. Pratt had some questions for me, about my resume. No big deal."_

 _Cordelia arched a brow, shifting backward slightly. "Some questions…about your resume."_

 _Buffy's lame attempt at a scrambled excuse didn't seem to be working. Why did she look so much like she didn't believe her? That's what he'd said, wasn't it? Before he'd asked for Cordelia to leave? He'd been holding her resume and said something, something, about seeing if she was as sharp in person… "Yeah. About my school's lit mag." She shrugged, amazed by how steady her voice sounded, how casual she could actually play it if she had to. "I was editor two years running, we won a couple awards. He'd heard of it. Like I said," she forced a bright, careful smile onto her face. "No big deal."_

 _The brunette's features softened, brow smoothing as she nodded thoughtfully. "Well, look at you," she said lightly, a small smile starting to quirk her own lips. "Found a way onto the beast's good side already?"_

 _Buffy almost laughed. She was most definitely on one of Spike's sides at the moment, but she had a feeling it probably wasn't his good one. "I don't think I'd go that far," she admitted, following Cordelia back through the mini maze that was the twelfth floor office, the two of them falling into step side-by-side. "He said he wanted that manuscript you gave me on his desk by 2:00."_

 _This earned her a high, short laugh from her boss as they finally made it back to their cubicle bank. Xander was standing up waiting for them, leaning over his little partition. He had a wary, raised eyebrow expression on his face and two large looking to-go coffee cups in either hand._

 _"_ _God, you're right," Cordelia told Buffy breezily, plucking one of the coffees out of Xander's hand and dropping back down into her desk. "Good side and you, not even in the same zip code."_

 _Xander turned his attention to Buffy, eyes scanning her face as he extended the other coffee in his hand out to her. She took it gratefully, flashing him another genuine smile as her still slightly shaky fingers closed around the cup. "Went that well, huh?" he asked, giving her a sympathetic head tilt and narrowing his eyes._

 _"_ _Oh, yeah," Buffy grumbled, letting herself sink down into her own chair. She let the smile melt off her face, realizing as she looked between the concerned expression on Xander's face and the_ I feel you, sister _look on Cordelia's, that she was allowed to look a little thrown. That she could look as shaken up as she felt, even if it was for far different reasons than her two new co-workers could know._

 _"_ _How many pages do you have left?" Cordelia asked, inclining her head toward the manuscript in question and setting her coffee down on her desk. Buffy noted the perfect red lipstick ring she'd left behind._

 _"_ _Umm," she turned her attention back to the papers in front of her, fingering the page she had been on—36—and lifting the stack to thumb through to the last page—300-. She groaned, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling then back down again, meeting the brunette's. "Does 'too many to get through in two hours' answer your question?"_

But somehow, Buffy had managed it. About halfway through the manuscript, with a little over an hour to go, Buffy had realized what was going on. That this was some kind of test, or something. What Spike had asked of her, she'd quickly realized after seeing the look on Cordelia's face, was something he had assumed would be impossible for her. He'd said he would keep her on until she did something worth firing her over, and that's what he'd been trying to do. Trying to manufacture a reason to get rid of her.

So, he was looking for an easy way out? Buffy'd be damned if she was just going to hand it to him.

Thus she'd found herself there, standing in front of his office door with a completed manuscript in hand at approximately 1:55pm. Five minutes early, and actually feeling a little on the smug side. She'd tucked the papers under her arm, raised her hand to knock, and froze.

Because she could hear him. She could hear him speaking through the door, on the phone, to someone he kept referring to as "kitten". His wife.

And just like that, every ounce of smugness or stubbornness or any other –ness she might have been feeling up to that point fizzled out, leaving her stuck, frozen to the spot and suddenly sincerely wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

But she'd waited as long as she could at this point, and after hearing the clatter of his office phone being set back down in its cradle, she knew she had to just do it. Pull the band aid off. Quick and dirty.

She forced her knuckles to the wooden door, tapping them against it hard three times. "Mr. Pratt?"

His half-muffled response. "What is it?"

Closing her eyes briefly, steeling herself, searching for any ounce of the indignation she'd been feeling earlier at her desk as she'd plowed through page after page of hormone driven angst, she reached for the door knob and twisted, opening her eyes again and pushing her way into the office. She halfway expected to open the door and see a different man, see the aged non-dancing blue eyes and the non-bleached hair of the man she'd been expecting to see, and not the ghost of the man she'd spent the night with.

No such luck.

His eyes flicked up to hers just long enough for him to register her presence before he had them turned down again. He wasn't writing anything this time. Instead, he had a cell phone out, typing something into it, the tiny keyboard clicking and clacking as he went.

Feeling like the eye flick was all the acknowledgment she was going to get, she cleared her throat and said "I, umm…I have that manuscript you asked for."

"You mean the one I asked you to have on my desk by 2:00?" he asked coolly, still not looking at her, his eyes still focused on the screen of his phone.

Buffy felt her jaw clench.

Right. Because the first thing he was going to do was be sure to point out that she missed his impossible deadline, even if she really hadn't. And for whatever reason, Buffy felt compelled to let him know that she had in fact made it. Not that she could rightfully stand in front of him and explain that she'd heard him on the phone talking to his wife, that being forced into remembering he was married, that what she'd done with him the night before had not only meant she'd somehow slept with her boss but that she'd also aided in the committing of adultery, had her stomach heaving and churning into knots.

So she lied. "Cordelia said she thought you might be on a conference call, so I waited out in the hall for a few minutes before knocking."

"Mmhm," he murmured, sounding distracted, seeming to finish with whatever it was he'd been typing, setting his phone aside and finally looking at her. He folded his hands casually across one another on the edge of his desk, cocking his head to the side. "And what time is it now, Miss Summers?"

 _Asks the man who literally_ just _had his cell phone in his hand._

"I'm not…" she trailed off as he raised his dark brows, leveling her with an expectant, wide-eyed look. She swallowed, fought the urge to grit her teeth together and turned her head to the side. She found the little ticking clock on his book shelf, hastily read the roman numerals, silently cursing him as she did. Then she exhaled and met his eyes again. "2:10."

 ** _-Monday, June 3rd. 2:10am-_**

"I don't ever do things like this," Buffy breathed, lashes fluttering, head spinning and light.

And she didn't. She didn't do this _ever_. Ever, ever. Things like this and her weren't a thing. At least, they weren't a thing back home. Here, who knew? Maybe this was her new thing. Her Boston thing. God, maybe Faith had been right to warn her before going out.

She was thinking too much.

She was halfway in his lap. One hand at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft curls there and the other on his face. Her fingertips grazed his cheekbone while her thumb hooked below his chin, crushing his lips to hers.

"No." Spike spoke the words against her mouth, shaking his head. "Me neither."

Buffy didn't quite believe him but she also didn't quite care.

He was pulling her further into his space. One of his hands was splayed over her hip, fingernails digging into the denim of her jeans. The other was cupping the back of her head, fingers in her hair, thumb brushing across her cheek.

And then she had both legs swung over his lap, both his hands flying to her waist to pull her up, curling her body as far around his as possible. He continued to kiss her. Lips bruising hers, demanding. Greedy. Hot, open mouthed kisses, letting his tongue sweep against hers as he leaned into her, or pulled her into him, she couldn't quite tell which. Her body was on fire and her head was swimming and she could feel his heart beat, the way it slammed against his ribs as he pulled her tighter still. Their chests heaved, pressed together.

What felt like only seconds later, she felt the taxi come to a shuddering stop.

Still reeling, breathless, feeling confused, Buffy tore her lips from Spike's. She opened her eyes slowly, lashes fluttering as she blinked down at him. His eyes were open too, riveted to her mouth as she shifted slightly over, leaning to the side to glance out the window at the looming high rise in front of her. Instantly, she frowned. Because even though her head was doing that funny, swimmy thing and her blood felt like it might be buzzing and she'd only been living there for about a week, she could tell. "This isn't me."

Spike chuckled and shifted forward, sliding her slightly off his lap so he could turn and glance out the window himself. A moment later he looked back toward Buffy and kissed her cheek once before fluttering his lips near her ear. "No," he said, his voice a low, seductive purr as he took the lobe of her ear between his teeth and tugged gently. "This is me."

 ** _-Monday, June 3rd. 2:11pm-_**

"And that," he said flatly, pointing a finger in the direction of his clock, his eyes never leaving Buffy's. "Would make the manuscript you have there ten minutes late."

He was just barely managing to keep the smug smirk off his face. Buffy's jaw clenched again, her fingers itching, her right hand curling into a fist at her side as her left dug further into the stack of papers.

She fought to keep a grip on her temper, even as her cheeks flushed hot and a whole slew of choice words flew to the back of her tongue. She inhaled through her nose, exhaled slowly. "Technically."

Spike nodded, leaning back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Close the door."

Irritation momentarily waylaid, Buffy blinked at him, waiting for him to give a follow up command. He didn't. Just sat behind his desk casually, waiting patiently for her to do as he'd requested. Feeling a little numb, Buffy turned around slowly, took the couple short steps back toward his office door and pushed it shut.

When she turned back to face him, he was reaching a hand out and hitting a button on his black office phone, waiting for the little red light to blink to life before turning his attention back to her. "Tell me," he began slowly, "is this going to be a habit of yours working here?" At her furrowed brow, he widened his eyes and blinked, like it should be obvious. "Being ten minutes late."

For half a minute, Buffy saw red. Her cheeks flamed hot and she took an impulsive step toward his desk, pulling the manuscript out from under her arm and gripping it in her right hand. She immediately opened her mouth to explain to him, once again, that the stupid manuscript hadn't been ten minutes late. In fact, the damn thing had been five minutes _early_. And if he hadn't been sitting in here on the phone with his _wife_ instead of working, then—

Oh.

She snapped her mouth shut again, blinking at him as she realized. He wasn't just talking about the manuscript.

His eyes scanned her face, watching the play of emotions move across it as he slowly got to his feet, began moving back around his desk, his fingers trailing lightly along the wood as he moved. "You didn't think I'd find out about this morning, then?"

She knew logically that she was wrong, that it probably wouldn't mean anything even if she wasn't, but she could _swear_ , swear in that moment, that his words held some kind of wiggy double meaning. Buffy watched as he completed the small semi-circle around his desk, finally landing in his spot in front and leaning casually back against it. Spike's eyes were narrowed thoughtfully, one hand, his left hand, tucked into the pocket of his slacks as he looked at her.

Buffy forced herself to keep eye contact with him, hand still clutching the thick stack of papers. "Cordelia said it wasn't an issue."

"Cordelia isn't your boss though, is she?" His lips twitched again like he wanted to smirk, but he didn't. "Technically."

 ** _-Monday, June 3rd. 2:30am-_**

They kissed each other in the elevator. As they clumsily made their way down the long corridor. When they reached his door, and he fumbled for his keys. For the three solid minutes it took for him to find the right key, to push it into the lock and get the deadbolt to turn.

They only stopped kissing once they'd made it inside.

Spike stood behind her, hands on her hips as he guided her into the loft style apartment, kicking the door shut behind them as they went. Through the narrow entry way and into the main living space, she took a moment to glance around, taking in as much as she could in the dark. Long, brown tufted leather sofa, a thick wooden coffee table and two matching wing backed chairs stood in the living space in front of her. There was a small but impeccably finished kitchenette to her right, a door she assumed most likely led to a bathroom on her left. A loft space on the far end of the apartment, a thin spiral staircase made of glinting metal leading up to it. There were two end tables on either side of the sofa, with two matching lamps, turned off. And, where she would have expected to see some massive flat screen TV mounted to the wall, instead she found a book shelf. A wide one, spanning a good seven feet on the wall across from the leather sofa. There was a TV, she noticed, but it was a smallish one. A smallish one in the center of the shelving unit, surrounded on every side by various books.

On the lower end of the shelf, the bottom right hand side, Buffy saw what looked like a record player. Beside it, stacks of vinyl records she recognized as being similar to the ones her father used to listen to.

"What is it?" Spike asked huskily in her ear, making her jump slightly. He chuckled at her response and squeezed her waist once, possessively, before letting go and moving to circle around her until he was standing in front. Blocking her view of the rest of the apartment.

She looked up at him, searching his eyes with her. "What is what?"

Spike arched a brow, his lips quirking in amusement. "You've got this deer-in-headlights look on your face. 'S adorable," he conceded, tilting his head to the side, eyeing her through his lashes. "But I gotta say, not the expression I was expectin'."

"This is your place?" she asked, stepping around him and moving toward the book shelf, making a half conscious bee-line for the record player she'd spotted.

Behind her, Spike chuckled again. "Last I checked, yeah." A pause, and Buffy could feel his eyes on her as she stepped to the shelf, reached a hand up and trailed it along the spines of several of his books. "Why?"

Buffy paused now, her fingers landing along the edge of an old looking copy of Byron's Collected Works, shaking her head and pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, nibbling down on it. She turned to glance over her shoulder at her platinum haired, all-black wearing, goes-by-the-name-of- _Spike_ stranger, and she smiled. "It just isn't what I expected."

"Yeah, well," Spike crossed the space between them slowly, predatorily, a knowing smirk curving his lips as he did. "What ever is these days?" He stepped up beside her, ducking down to pull something Buffy couldn't see off the very bottom shelf, then standing back up. "Drink?"

Buffy eyed the bottle in his right hand, the two glass tumblers he held up in the other. The way his eyes narrowed on her, almost as though in challenge.

She shouldn't. She knew she shouldn't, or at least the logical side of her knew she shouldn't. Her head was still buzzy with the alcohol she'd drunk so far and she was already so _way_ far in over her head and the last thing she needed was another something to muddle with her already pre-muddled brain.

But logic apparently wasn't in the building anymore, because she bit down on her bottom lip, her eyes moving back up to meet his through the dark, and she nodded.

He gave Buffy a nod, turned his back on her and stepped toward the coffee table. She watched him as he set both the glasses down, angling his body toward her as he unscrewed the bottle and began pouring each of them a drink. Then he approached her again, extending a glass to her.

She took the proffered drink from him, letting her fingers graze his as she did. He tipped his own glass toward hers, letting the edges clink together before he raised it to his lips and took a sip, blue eyes glued unwaveringly to hers over the rim.

It was what she saw there that had her mouth going dry, her throat tightening. The intensity there, the hungry, lusty, almost single minded intent. She raised her own glass and took a sip, fighting the urge to make a face as the amber liquid burned against her lips, down her throat, down into her belly. Warming her from the inside out.

Lowering the glass again, she said, "You like books."

He nodded thoughtfully, swallowing the sip he'd just taken and reaching around her, setting the glass down on an empty space on the book shelf behind her head. "Like lotsa things. I like books." He placed one hand on the shelf to her right. "I like…Bogart films." And the other, on the shelf to her left. "I like…"

"Bad punk music," Buffy offered helpfully, stopping him short just as his lips were about to descend to hers.

He pulled back a little ways, the tip of his nose brushing lightly against hers as he mock glared down at her, narrowing his eyes. "…I like _you_ , so I'll ignore that."

She laughed lightly, grinning up at him, letting her head tilt back until it was resting against the spines of his books. "You like me, huh?"

"Mmm," he purred, moving one hand off the shelf and plucking the tumbler from her hand, setting it down. "I do." Then a pause, his eyes going wide with false horror. "Bloody hell, have I not made that clear?" He leaned in close to Buffy again, pressing his cheek to hers, his lips at her ear. "Best get to fixin' that, shall I?"

She opened her mouth to respond but he was faster than she was, claiming her lips in one of those urgent, searing kisses, the kind they'd shared in the taxi. Spike's body was pressing into hers, bumping her into the book shelf, the book shelf scraping against the wall. His hands were on her, everywhere, one splayed against the small of her back and the other had suddenly found its way to the front of her jeans. To the button, then the zipper.

Buffy gasped, her hands flying to his chest and pushing, forcing space between them.

Spike pulled back, stunned, blinking rapidly down at her. She stared up at him, equally thrown. Not sure why she'd had such a visceral reaction to him. His hand was still on her zipper. She didn't make a move to move him. For a moment, just one, she'd forgotten. Forgotten up until about three hours ago, she'd never met the man standing in front of her before. He'd made her forget. Completely and totally disarmed her. But now, her hackles were raised, her stomach pitching with anxiety as she realized where she was, what she was doing. How this thing she was doing was so far from her _normal_. She sucked in a deep breath, turned her eyes away from his, focused on her hands that were still pressed to his chest.

"Spike," she whispered.

"Buffy," he whispered back.

She blinked once, long and slow, then looked back up at him. She swallowed, fighting the dizzy sensation being this close to him was causing. "I…I meant it, what I said in the cab. I don't…God, this isn't _me_." Her eyes searched his. "I don't do this."

"This," Spike echoed blankly, tilting his head down toward her, brows raised. "And _this_ being…?"

She frowned at him. " _This_." Buffy pulled a hand off his chest to gesture emphatically between the two of them, widening her eyes. "Share drinks with a stranger. Get all gropey with said stranger in the back seat of a cab. Go _home_ with—"  
"Technically," Spike said half under his breath, shifting his eyes to the side, "this isn't my _home_ —"

She groaned, rolled her eyes, ignored whatever it was exactly _that_ meant. "You know what I mean."

"Meant what I said too, you know," he reminded her gently, pulling his hand away from the denim of her jeans, running it through his hair. He sighed then, shaking his head, and Buffy could only watch as the ultra-seductive facade, the purring voice and the raised brow and the cocky smirk from the bar melted away. His expression was almost sheepish when he turned back to her, dropping his hand. "Chattin' up strange birds in bars ain't exactly my MO either." He reached for her, wrapping his hands around her upper arms and dipping his head slightly so he could catch her eyes. "Look. You wanna leave, pet? 'S fine. We'll go right back downstairs, I'll hail you another cab and get you home." His grip dropped, sliding from her arms to her elbows. "Just say the word."

If he'd reacted any other way, she would have been gone. At least, ya know, she figured she would have been gone. If he'd tried to convince her she was making the right decision, or had tried to bully her into staying. If he'd dropped full tilt into that swaggery, seductive thing he'd pulled on her at the bar. She would have gone home, right then and there.

But he hadn't.

So she shook her head and smiled, making her decision in the split second it took for the words to pass her lips. "I don't want to leave."

 ** _-Monday, June 3rd. 2:13pm-_**

Tired of the pretense, Buffy sighed, her shoulders sagging as she stared at Spike. Setting her jaw, she stepped across the plush Oriental rug, side-stepped the chair and set the thick manuscript down on top of his desk with a flourish and a _smack_. Then she turned toward the bleached blonde, fighting the urge to cross her arms as she asked, "Is this one of those things that's worthy of being _'_ _sacked'_ over?"

She couldn't resist putting the word in air quotes.

And Spike did smirk at Buffy now, angling himself toward her, his own arms folded across his chest. He cocked a brow, appraising her coolly. "I'm not sure I've decided yet."

 _Oh, I'll just_ bet _you haven't._

She nodded, biting back what it was she actually wanted to say, folding her hands together and letting them drop with a smack against her black pencil skirt. "Well, I'm sorry I was late today, Mr. Pratt."

He widened his eyes, mocking, falsely innocent. "And _why_ were you late today, Miss Summers?"

Buffy frowned more deeply at him, narrowing her eyes, trying to judge whatever game it was he was playing. First he wasn't going to fire her over their little mistake. Then, he tried to make it impossible for her to do her job well on the first day. Now, he was looking at her like he wanted to eat her for lunch. She didn't get it, didn't _want_ to get it. She just wanted the playing field levelled so she knew if she needed to be looking for another job before her first month's rent was due.

"I was…" she began, trailing off as his brows raised expectantly. "I mean, I don't…" Another knowingly arched brow, a hint of that smug smirk. And Buffy sighed, reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "You know why."

"Do I?" he asked, and the smug expression was starting to falter. Cracking at the edges, Buffy could see it, that he was getting angry again. This anger, though, felt different. Different from the one he'd levelled at her earlier in the day, before he'd realized she hadn't had any clue who he was when they'd spent the night together.

"Look," Buffy began slowly, caught in the intensity of his gaze as they stared each other down. "This morning was—"

"Right," he said fiercely, and the façade cracked even more. His eyes flashed and he pushed himself off the edge of his desk. "Let's talk about this morning."

 ** _-Monday, June 3rd. 4:28am-_**

Buffy fell back onto the mattress, the springs creaking a little under her weight as her head hit one fluffy down pillow. Her chest was heaving, tangles of golden hair sweat slicked to her forehead as she stared, blinking wide eyes up at the ceiling. She gathered the twisted sheets to her chest, reaching a shaky hand up and pressing it to her forehead, brushing her hair back.

A long beat passed as she caught her breath, heard him catching his on the pillow next to hers.

"Umm," she said finally, laughing lightly, breathlessly as she let her eyes flutter shut. Her legs were blissfully, deliciously numb. "That was…"

Beside her the mattress groaned again, and she felt his weight as he rolled toward her. "That _was_ indeed."

Buffy laughed again and glanced sideways, peaking at him through the crook of her elbow. He was propped up on his left elbow now, feathering his free hand through his own tangled platinum locks, torn loose from their gel by some combination of Buffy's questing fingers and the pillow that had been beneath his head a moment ago.

"You have bed head," she murmured, pulling her hand away from her head and reaching for his, wrapping that same curl she'd noticed before at the bar around her finger and giving it a light tug.

"I have _bedded_ head," he told her silkily, reaching his hand up to grab hers, twisting it around and bringing it to his lips to plant a soft kiss on her knuckles. He narrowed his eyes on her, tilted his head to the side, and she watched the blue of his irises do their dancing, sparkling thing. "And so do you, pet."

He let go of her hand and let his arm slide down the bed until his cheek was resting languidly against his bicep. Buffy rolled further onto her side, tucking her arm up beneath her pillow and searching his eyes. "The difference?" she asked him, feeling all kinds of light and giggling and after-glowy.

He smirked at her, lips curving up. "One is much more satisfyin'." Then he leaned forward to kiss her again, his lips just slightly parted and tasting of some intoxicating combination of the scotch they'd drank earlier and the sweat they'd worked up and _her_ and, oh _God_ , she couldn't help the moan that escaped her lips as he covered her mouth with his and inhaled deeply.

 ** _-Monday, June 3rd. 5:40am-_**

He collapsed against her, dropping down to his elbows and burying his face in the crook of her neck. She had her hands wrapped around him, tracing absent little patterns across his lower back. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their breathing. Ragged, mingled pants as they each tried to catch their breath again.

Finally, Buffy felt him chuckle, his breath cooling the sheen of sweat that coated her collar bone. "Christ, " he groaned, "you're gonna kill me."

She grinned, giggling a little herself. "Not if you kill me first."

Spike pressed his hands down into the mattress on either side of her, dropping a kiss to the side of her neck before pushing up, extending his arms out so he could look down into her face. He grinned rakishly, eyes gleaming in the dimness of his loft bedroom. "But what a brilliant way to go."

Buffy smiled again as he dropped a kiss to her lips, then flopped over onto his back with a flourish, making the mattress creak. They lay in silence for a little while, until both of their breathing patterns had regulated. Then, after another little bit, Buffy rolled over onto her side, tucking her arm up beneath her head, and said "Can I ask you a question?"

"Mmm, I dunno," he mused, rolling back up onto his side. "Is it personal?" His eyes danced as they looked into hers, squinting, playful. She gave him a dead pan look, and he laughed. "Go ahead, luv."

Buffy nodded, thinking of how exactly she wanted to go about asking. The words had been right there, just a second ago. On the tip of her tongue.

She couldn't find them now. But after an excruciatingly long pause, she figured it'd be best to just…start talking. " _This_ …I mean, this thing tonight. With us." She rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. Not sure she really wanted to be looking in his eyes when she asked, or when he answered. "It's a one-time deal, isn't it?"

An equally long pause from Spike as he seemed to think over the question. Then, softly, "Is that what you want?"

Buffy hesitated a half second before she rolled onto her side and met his eyes. She couldn't read the expression on his face, not in the barely there light. She frowned. "Is that what _you_ want?"

He didn't answer her. Didn't say another word. He just kissed her again, his mouth claiming hers with bruising force, and she figured that was her answer. She stiffened at first, but his lips moving over hers eventually won out, and she moaned, melted into him. He pressed his chest into hers, used his body to roll her over onto her back.

And then his phone went off, loudly. A head pounding, vicious trill that had Buffy jumping away from him, completely startled. Spike groaned, rolling away from her and snatching his cell phone up off his night stand. "Bloody hell," he grumbled, eyeing the bright screen with one eye open before sliding the bar over. The trilling stopped, and he let the phone drop down to the mattress with a muffled thud, reaching a hand up to rub his eyes. "Buggering alarm."

Buffy stifled a small giggle, wondering what kind of person sets an alarm for the middle of the night. She reached for the discarded black phone, plucking it up out of the sheets. "Is your alarm seriously going off at...6:00 in the morning?" She stared, wide-eyed, horrified at the glowing white numbers staring back at her from the screen. She angled it toward Spike, demanding, "Oh my God, is it 6:00 in the morning?"

He moved his hand off his eyes and looked at her, taking in her stricken expression. "If I say 'no' are you goin' to believe me?"

Buffy ignored him, dropping the phone again and sitting bolt upright in bed. She leaned over the side as far as she dared, snatching up her jeans, her discarded top and her underwear up off the floor as quickly as possible. "I have to go," she said hurriedly, panicked, realizing she had no idea which side of the city Spike lived, how close it was to her own apartment. Judging by how stupid nice his was she guessed probably far. "I have to get home, a-and shower and get ready and—"

"What time do you have to be at work?" Spike asked, cutting her off, forcing her attention back toward him. He was sitting up in bed now, too, looking at her calmly.

"Umm, I don't…" She was feeling too flustered to remember. "9:00 I think."

"Right then." He ran a hand over her head, smoothing her hair back as he gazed at her. "Got plenty of time. I'm gonna pop in the shower real fast, and then I'll fix you somethin' to eat."

Buffy frowned, shaking her head. "Spike—"

"And _then_ I'll get you a taxi," he soothed, not giving her room to argue. "Have you home by 7:00 at the latest, yeah?" He shifted toward her, planting a linger kiss to the crown of her head. Then he jumped out of the bed and started heading for his small spiral staircase. "Don't move one bleeding muscle. I'll be right back."

She watched him go, murmuring a half-hearted "Okay" as she did.

But as soon as she heard the bathroom door close, the metallic clinking of the pipes as his shower turned on, Buffy was up and out of the bed. She scrambled to dress herself as fast as she could, half stumbling down the staircase, her legs still a little numb. She found her heels where she'd left them, strewn in front of his leather sofa, and slipped them on. Bolting for the front door, she paused just long enough to glance toward the closed bathroom door, where she could have sworn she heard him very faintly singing. Feeling like she understood what it was he'd been trying to tell her with that last kiss upstairs, she sighed, smiled.

And then she was gone.

 ** _-Monday, June 3rd. 2:20pm-_**

Buffy took a deep breath in, trying to decide what to say, how to say it. Trying to figure out if he was asking her to ask, or asking her because he wanted to bring it up. If he was wanting her to lie outright, to make up an excuse, or if he was actually wanting her to talk about it. She didn't know, couldn't tell.

She exhaled through pursed lips. "This morning was—"

And the façade broke apart all together then. Right in front of her eyes, the cold exterior melted, his eyes burning as he stepped into her personal space and looked down at her. His voice was low, sounded like he was trying hard to keep it that way. "You just _left_ , Buffy." His use of her name shocked her a little. "Without a bloody word. Just disappeared without so much as goodbye."

Feeling a rush of fresh indignation, she glared at him. What, had he expected her to knock on his bathroom door? "Well I would've left a note but I figured that wouldn't have exactly been one-night-standy of me."

"Right," he said, taking a small step out of her personal bubble and tilting his chin back. "Cause that's what that was."

Of course that's what that was. That's what he'd told her that was. God, that's what that _had_ to have been. "Yes, _Spike_ , that's exactly what that was." And without knowing why, without having the slightest, insiest clue why she felt like it was a good idea, she reached for his left hand and held it out, as if to remind him of the thin gold band around his ring finger. "You're _married."_

She more than expected him to rip his hand out of her grasp. Expected him to fire her, right there on the spot. At the very least to maybe yell at her some more, or do the thing where he doesn't yell but she wished he would because nothing could be worse than the tense quiet of his voice.

He opted for option D instead.

He closed the fingers of his left hand around hers and squeezed. His voice still low, eyes blazing. "Know bloody well what I am, luv."

Buffy ripped her hand out of his and stumbled back, the cool, metallic feel of his wedding band sparking across her skin as she did. She moved away from Spike on unsteady legs, side-stepping back around the chair in front of his desk, bracing her hand on it for support.

"Can we just like…pretend it never happened?" She asked him, now safely on the other side of the chair, its sturdy frame forming a much needed barrier between the two of them. "Treat me like any other, lowest of the low, totem pole interns you have that come through here?" Spike didn't make a move to come after her or approach her again, but his eyes were glued to hers, as intense as ever. She wallowed again. "Either that, or just fire me and get it over with," she told him, her voice pitching high. "Pick one. Because dealing with this whole _I accidentally had sex with my boss_ thing is just a little with the much for me on my first day."

"Can't fire you for that," Spike told her, finally looking away. He shook his head and spoke softly, like it was something that maybe he'd been thinking about, been trying to get around since she'd first set foot in his office that morning. "Not for somethin' you did by accident, before you were officially employed here."

She narrowed her eyes on him, staring blankly at his profile. Her cheeks burned and she scoffed, unable to help it. He wanted her gone so badly? Fine. Maybe it'd be best for both of them. "Then find another reason," she said derisively, her voice coming out hard edged and bitter. God, she was just _asking_ for it now. "I was late coming in today, use that."

His eyes shot back to hers, looking pained. His brows were drawn, frowning. "Buffy, please—"

"Fine," she said, momentarily disarmed by the stricken expression on his face. Confused, her anger fizzling out, fading around the edges as she looked at Spike. She blinked at him, thinking of what to say next. "Don't fire me. Do the other one." She gestured toward the manuscript she'd set down on his desk for emphasis. "Pretend I'm just your average, every day, run-of-the-mill _nobody_ intern."

Spike chuckled darkly, and turned his face away from Buffy, shaking his head. Like it was the most ridiculous suggestion he'd ever heard. But a minute later the bitter edge of his smirk had slipped away, and he looked at her. His face open, honest. "I'm not sure I can do that, either."

So he couldn't fire her. Couldn't fire her, or _wouldn't_ fire her, she still wasn't sure. Couldn't, wouldn't fire her, and couldn't or wouldn't treat her like every other meaningless six-month-run intern he'd ever had. It didn't leave him with much of an option for her. Granted, it did leave _her_ with an option. She could quit. She could resign. And maybe that's what he wanted her to do? Resign, fall on the sword, make the decision for both of them. But she didn't _want_ to do that. She wanted to be here. She wanted to stick it out, to learn, to get her foot in the door.

To make her mom and her little sister proud.

So she looked him dead in the eye, feeling suddenly exhausted, and asked him the only question that she could. "What do you want from me?"

And he looked straight back at her and gave her the only answer she figured he could. "I don't know."

Impulsively, she stepped toward him. "Spike—"

But he'd already shut down again. His expression clouding over, his gaze growing stoic and cold. He turned his back on her, grabbing the manuscript up off his desk and thumbing through it. Then he dropped it back down with a slap. Buffy heard him exhale, watched him lean forward and press his knuckles into his desk. He dropped his head, said softly, "That'll be all, Miss Summers."

Buffy turned and hurried out of his office, closing the door behind her with a slam.


	3. Chapter 3

**_-Monday, June 3rd. 8:00pm-_**

When Buffy got back to her apartment that night, Faith wasn't there. Not that she'd really expected her to be. The other girl was still sort of a mystery to Buffy. She worked a bunch of odd jobs, waitressing a couple nights a week at some ultra-swanky restaurant, bar tending at some place called Mick's that she described herself as "just another Irish dive" other nights and, funniest of all, dog walking every afternoon in some of the city's nicer neighborhoods. Monday nights, Buffy was pretty sure, were Irish dive bar nights, so she knew Faith would be long gone by the time she'd gotten off work at 7:00.

Buffy unzipped her boots and kicked them off, leaving them sprawled haphazardly by the front door, which she dead bolted once more before turning toward the rest of the small two bedroom apartment. She padded in striped sock clad feet through the itty bitty "entry way" and into the main space, the kitchen/living room/home office, dropping her purse and her notebook on the edge of the faux-marble countertop. As she rounded the corner of the counter and approached the fridge, she saw that her roommate had left her yet another hastily scribbled note, pinned up to the freezer door with a magnet. She moved the flat magnet aside and pulled the note off.

 _B,_

 _Sorry about last night. Got caught up. Hope you had that Best. Day. Ever._

 _See ya tomorrow._

 _-Faith_

Buffy read the note aloud to herself as she pulled the refrigerator door open, reaching inside and pulling out a strawberry yogurt, bumping it shut again with her hip when she turned to grab a spoon. She set the note down and passed her purse on her way to the sofa, digging her cell phone out of it one-handed. The front screen was glowing. Three missed calls, four unread text messages. Probably all from Dawn.

Buffy sighed and headed for the sofa, yogurt in one hand and phone in the other, and started to flip through the text messages she'd missed. Three from Dawn, and weirdly enough, one from her college boyfriend. Which really was weird, considering they hadn't spoken in weeks. Definitely not since she'd gotten the internship and decided to take it. She scrolled over and clicked the little lit up message icon and began to go through the ones she'd missed as she sat down on the edge of the sofa, frowning.

 **Dawn. 6/2, 11:45pm.** _Hope you're having fun with crazy cakes. Call me when you get home!_

 **Dawn. 6/3, 9:30am.** _Must have been some night. Call when you can._

 **Angel. 6/3, 10:16am**. _Miss you, Buff. Good luck today. Hope it's everything you want it to be._

Buffy frowned deeper as she read his message once. Twice. It seemed sincere enough, she guessed, but it was still majorly weird to her. After weeks of radio silence, ignoring her attempts to reach him, when she'd tried to call and tell him goodbye. Her thumb hovered over the delete button as she scanned the brief message one last time, then erased it.

And the last message she'd missed.

 **Dawn. 6/3, 6:56pm.** _Fine. Just don't forget to eat something._

Buffy laughed a little as she read the last message, turning her eyes back to the yogurt in her hand. She wasn't hungry, which was weird considering the fact she hadn't eaten anything at all that day. She'd worked on that stupid manuscript all through lunch, and even though Cordelia and Xander had brought her food back from the little kabob restaurant down the street, she hadn't exactly been in the mood to eat either before _or_ after her second run in with Spike.

Even now, thinking about it again, running through the horrible, awkward, train wreck fest that was her first day of work was making her feel a little nauseas. She slumped down against the back of the sofa, staring blankly at the yogurt in her hand for an extended second before sighing and putting it down on the glass coffee table. Then she turned her full attention to her cell phone and dialed.

It rang once. Twice. A half of a third time. Then, "You better be calling to tell me you're dead. Or that somebody stole your phone. Or you lost it. Or—"

Buffy smiled, tucking her feet up beneath her and curling up into the far end of the sofa. "Hi, Dawnie."

On the other line, her sister didn't sound amused. "Don't 'hi, Dawnie' me, sister. Where have you _been_?" There was a muffled thudding sound, the clinking of pots and pans knocking together, and Buffy could practically picture it. Dawn in the kitchen, the phone wedged up between her ear and shoulder, getting ready to make dinner, maybe. Buffy glanced at the clock. It'd be close to 6:30 in L.A. "I haven't heard from you in days."

"Dawn, I called you yesterday."

"Yeah," her sister said flatly, still sounding equal parts relieved and annoyed. "You called yesterday morning. It's now Monday evening." A slapping sound, and then sizzling over the other end of the line. "Ergo _, days_."

Buffy smirked into the phone, shaking her head. "You know just because you use fancy Latin words it doesn't make whatever you say after them true, right?"

"What happened to you last night?" Dawn pressed, unfazed. Buffy could hear cabinets opening and closing in the background now.

 _What happened to you last night…_

The better question? What _hadn't_ happened to her last night.

Buffy's throat ran dry and she shut her eyes, leaning her head back against the sofa and pushing the brief surge of very bad, very inappropriate lustiness as far back down as she could manage. She'd done a great job of holding it off all day at the office, mostly because she'd been so massively wigged she hadn't had any time to really dwell on the details from the night before. Not with the manuscript issue, and the several projects Cordelia'd had ready and waiting for her when she'd returned from her second trip to Spike's office. No, she hadn't had any time to think about him that way, any way, other than the _holy crap, bar man and boss man are one in the same_ type way. But now, in the safety of her little apartment, away from prying eyes, she found herself starting to let her thoughts drift just a little.

Until Dawn spoke again, making her jump, forcing her thoughts back to the moment at hand. "You were supposed to call me when you got home from whatever lame bar Faith dragged you to."

Oh, boy. She'd totally spaced. She had promised Dawn that she'd call her when she got home from the bar. She'd planned on being back by midnight, which would have put her scheduled sisterly phone call right around 10:00 California time.

Obviously, that hadn't happened. That hadn't happened because Buffy had stayed at the bar and drank with her boss. She'd gone home with her boss. She'd had sexwith her boss. And irony of ironies, she'd actually really, really _liked_ her boss.

Until she'd found out that he was her boss. Until she'd found out that he was married and was a lying, cheating, stubborn-

"What are you making?" Buffy asked, forcing her eyes back open and changing the subject. She reached a hand down to rub gently at the top of her foot, the little indentation her boots had made running across the tops of her toes. "It sounds like it smells awesome."

Dawn laughed at that. "Don't change the subject."

"I'm not," Buffy lied, still vigorously rubbing away the lines on her foot.

"Then tell me what happened, Buffy. You _never_ forget to call."

And that was true. She never, ever forgot to call Dawn, never forgot to check in when she told her she was going to. Not over the last six months at least. Not since their mom had first gotten sick. Buffy sighed, tucking her knees up further into her chest, her eyes cast down, finding the top of the faded coffee stain from that morning.

"Nothing happened," she lied again, squeezing her eyes shut. "I Just…came home and crashed. It was late," _or really early, either way_ , "and I had to be at work by 9:00, so—"

Dawn gasped into the phone, cutting Buffy off, thankfully, before she could go full-on ramble girl. "Oh my God, I _suck_ ," she breathed, and Buffy could picture her doing a tiny, signature foot stamp. "I totally forgot your first day was today! Tell me everything." Another slap, another sizzling sound. If Buffy had to guess, she'd go with grilled cheese. "Was it exactly like you imagined it'd be?"

 _Maybe in my nightmares_. "Not exactly."

Dawn paused. Then, "You sound weird. What's up?"

Buffy shook her head even though her sister couldn't see her. "Nothing," she said, sighing and untucking her legs. She got back up to her feet and flipped off the lamp on the small table next to her. "Look, Dawnie, it was just a really, really… _really_ long day." She checked the deadbolt on the front door once more, then turned and headed for her bedroom. "A lot of work to do to get me caught up, and I was late, and some lady spilled her coffee on my blouse—"

"Your good luck blouse?" Dawn asked, sounding horrified.

Buffy rolled her eyes, shutting her door behind her, moving to her nightstand and flicking that lamp on. "You're the only one who calls it that," she reminded her, pulling her cell phone down away from her ear, putting it on speakerphone as she set it down on the table. "But, yeah, some lady spilled coffee on my good luck blouse." She began undoing the buttons on said blouse as she spoke. "And then I had to read through this awful young adult manuscript." She laughed a little thinking of one of the more gooshy lines of dialogue, pulling her blouse off her shoulders and tossing it aside. "And then my boss gave me this, like, _impossible_ assignment—" Buffy cut herself off, her eyes having landed on the large bruise, marking the skin just over her left breast. No, not a bruise, she corrected herself, reaching a hand up to press lightly at it, tilting her chin down to better eye the fading signs of teeth marks. _Hickie_. A giant, flashing, neon sign of a hickie. Her very own Scarlet Letter. Except, you know, it was more purple than scarlet.

He might as well have branded her.

On the other line, Dawn was still talking. "Buffy?"

She jumped to attention, having momentarily forgotten about her little sister. She forced her eyes away from her "A" and glanced toward the phone on her nightstand, blinking. "What?"

Dawn sighed, probably frustrated with having to repeat herself. "Your boss? That Cordelia chick, right."

Buffy carefully avoided the bruise now, turning her attention to her skirt. She reached for the zipper at her waist and cleared her throat. "Uh, no. No, my other boss. My boss's boss." She pulled down the zipper and stepped out of the pencil skirt, kicking it toward the pile of discarded clothes beside her bed. Her eyes landed on her jeans, her top, the heels she'd worn out the night before. She swallowed, turned around and headed for her dresser. "Do you, uh, remember me telling you about William Pratt?"

This had Dawn chuckling on the other line, the sounds of plates clinking together in the background as she plated whatever it was she'd been cooking. "Oh, gee, let me think…" She pretended to think. Then, "He's all you talked about for, like, weeks after you applied for the job."

Buffy fought the urge to wince. She'd sort of forgotten about that. She exhaled through her nose, unhooking her bra and tossing it in the open top drawer of her dresser. "Yeah, well," she murmured, yanking open the drawer below it and pulling out an oversized sleep shirt, slipping it hurriedly over her head, again avoiding the mark he'd left her with. "It was him."

Dawn laughed again, sounding delighted and Buffy couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Wait, so William Pratt is your impossible assignment guy?"

 _He's also just a guy in bar guy. And one night stand guy. And earth shattering sex-_ Buffy winced, cutting her own thoughts off with a slightly too loud"One and the same."

"So?" her sister pressed, talking around what sounded like a massive mouthful of food. " Is he as brilliant and amazing and super geniusy in real life as you thought he'd be?"

Buffy sighed, crawling into bed, picking her phone up off her nightstand as she flicked the lamp back off. "Well, he's…" she trailed off, not sure what to say. Not sure what she _wanted_ to say. She lay back on her pillows and shut her eyes, sighing as she tried to think of how to describe him. Arrogant. Magnetic. Infuriating. Young. Kinda scary. Stupid good-looking. All fitting, but not exactly right.

Buffy opened her eyes again and said, "He's not what I expected."

And Dawn's response, or the irony of it, might have made her laugh if she wasn't feeling so exhausted, wasn't already sinking down into her mattress and starting to drift to sleep.

"Not much ever is."

 _-_ _ **Wednesday, June 5th. 1:45pm-**_

Tuesday went by without any interruption from Spike. No impossible assignments, no phone calls, no e-mails. Nothing. All out radio silence. She found that she could actually really enjoy her job, if she shoved all thoughts of her adulterous boss out of her head, that was. Buffy was able to relax a little, sink into her job responsibilities, get somewhat of a rhythm down with Cordelia and an easy flow of conversation with Xander. She'd been assigned work on compiling something called an "author's list", a comprehensive list of names of all the writers that had submitted manuscripts specifically to William Pratt, whether solicited or very un. Cordelia said she'd never heard of it before, but that he'd been insistent on needing one.

Buffy enjoyed the mindlessness of the task. She enjoyed her co-workers. Most of all, she enjoyed the whole not having to see Spike thing.

On Wednesday afternoon, Cordelia's office phone rang.

Buffy eyed her cautiously as she nodded, murmured a couple "Yes, sirs", then hung the phone back up. "Boss man wants to see you," she said, sounding as surprised as Buffy was sure she looked. "He needs an update on that list 'right sodding now', apparently." She put the words in air quotes, sharing a bemused exchange of glances with Xander, who'd popped up over the partition between their desks during Cordelia's phone call.

Buffy stared at her. "He asked for me?"

Cordelia nodded. "Specifically. At least, I'm assuming." She arched a brow, shrugging. "You're the only _Miss Summers_ that works for me."

Buffy hurried toward Spike's office, a copy of everything she'd been able to get done on the compiled list so far in hand. She had no idea whether or not he'd be expecting more to be done, or what kind of an update he was needing on it.

She was surprised to find his heavy wooden door wide open when she reached it. He was standing up behind his desk, leaning over it, brow furrowed as his eyes scanned the words on the paper in front of him. Platinum hair carefully gelled back, sapphire blue button down, silver tie and black dress pants. He didn't seem to notice her, so she stepped further into the office, tapping her knuckles on the doorjamb lightly.

" _Darkness and Shadow_ ," he said simply, glancing up at her but not moving from his hunched over position.

Caught off guard, not sure she'd heard him right, Buffy blinked. "What?"

Spike cocked a brow and spoke again, his voice steady. " _Darkness and Shadow_ , Miss Summers."

She shook her head, trying to place the words. He was saying them to her like she should know them. "Darkness and…" she trailed off, her eyes widening as she remembered. "What, you mean the manuscript I finished on Monday?"

He smirked at her, lips curving up smoothly. "0ne and the same. What did you think of it?"

Buffy stared at him, her grip tightening involuntarily around the paper she held in her hand. She bit down into the side of her cheek, pursing her lips, giving him a little half shrug as she asked, "Does it matter?"

"If it didn't," he said slowly, doing that infuriating little head tilt thing. "I wouldn't be asking."

Buffy nodded, inhaling a deep breath and exhaling again through her nose. "It was interesting. Very…" she searched for a word, any word, to nicely describe the words she'd had to wade through the day before. Finally, she settled for "Imaginative."

And in response, Spike laughed. The kind of laugh she'd heard from him the other night. That first night. Loud, genuine. It caught her off guard a little, disarmed her even more in this setting, standing in the middle of his office, then it had that night at the bar. "Oh, come on now," he said after a moment, still chuckling lightly. "Be honest." Off her raised eyebrows, he nodded. "Go on, I'm curious."

"Okay," she said slowly, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth and biting down on it. She rolled her shoulders back, squared them. "In a word, bad. An _ocean_ of bad."

He nodded, pushing his knuckles off his desk and standing up straight. "I see. And what was so _bad_ about it?"

It was Buffy's turn to laugh now. She shook her head, reaching her free hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I'm not sure 'everything' is an all-encompassing enough word." She dropped her right hand and raised the other, waving the paper at him impatiently. "Look, do you need this list or not?"

"Would you publish it?" Spike asked her suddenly, apparently cutting to the chase.

Buffy blinked at him, lashes fluttering. If she did manage to make it through these next six months it'd be a miracle if she made it through without whiplash. "What?"

"If _this_ ," he said pointedly, reaching down to pull open his desk drawer, yanking out the manuscript Buffy had placed on his desk on Monday and slapping it down, "came across your desk as an editor, would you take it to the editorial board and try and get it published?"

They stared at each other for a moment. Then, feeling fed up, Buffy sighed, taking a step back and gesturing behind her toward the open door. "I have a lot of other work to do—"

"Bloody _hell_ , woman," he groaned, making a noise somewhere between a laugh and groan, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. She watched a muscle in his jaw tighten, tick once. "Just answer the question."

"No," she said quickly, raising her eyebrows and widening her eyes as if to say _are you happy now?_ "I wouldn't."

"Right then," Spike said breezily, and Buffy watched as he leaned back down onto his desk, bracing himself once more on his knuckles and turning his attention to the paper he'd been reading when she'd walked in. "You can go."

 ** _-Thursday, June 6th. 2:22pm-_**

When he called Cordelia the next afternoon and requested she send "Miss Summers" to his office to provide him with a follow-up on the information she'd provided him for the author's list the day before, Buffy wasn't surprised.

Annoyed, sure. Starting to feel manipulated, absolutely.

Surprised? No.

"Tell me why," he demanded as soon as she set foot through the door.

He was waiting for her in what Buffy was starting to think of as his "spot", leaning back against his desk with his arms folded across his chest, wrinkling the royal purple dress shirt he was wearing. No tie today, the top two buttons undone.

"Why?" She repeated blankly, stepping fully into his office and flipping her hair back over her shoulder. "Why _what_?"

There was a slight curve to his lips as he clarified for her. "Why wouldn't you try and publish it?"

 _Oh my_ God.

She gaped at him. "Are we talking about that manuscript again?"

"We have a winner," he said dryly.

Buffy shook her head, her jaw clenching tightly as she stared at him. After all the weirdness between the two of them on Monday, a blissful day and a half of nothing, then the false alarm with the list yesterday. He'd called her back into his office, for the second day in a row, and under false pretenses no less, to ask her…what? Her _opinion_ on a manuscript that they both knew by now was a complete and _total_ waste of time. She wasn't sure what exactly his game was, but she wasn't in the mood to play ball. "Is this like, a trick question or something?"

And, she couldn't believe it, but he had the audacity to look insulted.

"Hardly," he said, the ever-present smirk fading off his lips as he pushed off the desk with his hip, standing up straight. "Just wanna know what your reasoning was." He unfolded his arms, shoved both his hands deep into his pockets and took a slow step toward her. "Why wouldn't you publish _Darkness and Shadow_ if it were up to you?"

"Color me confused," Buffy said coolly, narrowing her eyes on him and crossing her arms. "I thought we already went over this. Ya know," She leaned toward him. " _Yesterday_."

The muscle in his jaw that she'd noticed the day before ticked again. "No need to be so bloody difficult, yeah?"

Buffy unfolded her right hand to gesture absently toward his desk, the manuscript she knew was stashed somewhere inside it. "Because it was _bad_ , Spi—" She cut herself off quickly, straightening back up. "Mr. Pratt."

"But _what_ about it was bad, Miss Summers?" He challenged her. "Be specific."

He wasn't going to let it go. Wasn't going to let her get back to her _actual_ work until she gave him what he wanted. She knew it, and she could tell by the expression on his face that he _knew_ she knew it. So Buffy sighed, resigned, and dropped both her hands down to her hips. She drummed her fingers against the fabric of her pants, sucking her cheeks in, nodding. "Okay. It…was sloppy," she began slowly, tearing her eyes away from his and looking down at the rug. "The writing was weak, the dialogue was majorly contrived. The main character was unsympathetic. And oh," she continued, on a roll now, warming to her subject. "My God, the _plot_ —"

"Will sell."

Her eyes shot back to his. "It will?"

"Bloody right it will," he said, chuckling. Then, "You look surprised. That 'ocean of bad', as you so charmingly put it," he smirked at her appreciatively, raising a scarred brow as her cheeks flooded with color, "is _exactly_ the type of book that sells, accordin' to marketing. You wanna find the next best seller, luv? Can't base your opinion off just what _you_ like. Have to cater to the masses, yeah?"

Buffy blinked a few times, trying to wrap her head around that. "And the masses," she said slowly, like she was trying to puzzle through a large math problem in her head. " _Darkness and Shadow_ is their thing?"

Spike hollowed his cheeks and nodded, turning his eyes down to the rug. "That's the world we live in."

A beat passed as she watched him move lithely behind his desk, dropping down into his chair. Another beat as he bent down and pulled a drawer out, fishing a fresh stack of papers out of it and setting them down in front himself. He began to thumb through them absently, more like he was pretending to look busy than actually being busy.

She stared at him another minute longer and then she had to ask. "Is Pratt going to publish it?"

Spike glanced up at her and opened his mouth to reapond. Then he paused, his eyes scanning her face, taking in the expression there. He frowned. "And now you look disappointed."

She was, but she couldn't exactly pin point why. Whether it was the callous way he was talking about the industry she'd chosen to be a part of, or the fact that she'd maybe admittedly over-romanticized the notion of working at a publishing house, or being a genius editor. Or maybe it was that she'd over-romanticized William Pratt himself.

Maybe it was that she knew he more than likely knew _exactly_ what he was talking about that bothered her so much.

"I should get back to work," she said now, shaking her head, halfway to clear it and halfway to shove the words _romantic_ and _William Pratt_ out of the same context. She turned toward the door. "I still have some things to do on that author's list."

She heard the rustle of clothing and figured he'd stood up again. "Miss Summers—"

"Okay, seriously." She whirled back around to face him, throwing her arms up. "Why do you do that? The whole Summers-comma-Miss thing. You don't do it to anyone else."

Spike's lashes fluttered rapidly and he leaned backward, tilting his chin up. "And it bothers you?"

She frowned, shaking her head. "No, I…" She sighed. "It confuses me."

"You don't like being confused." It wasn't a question.

A short, sharp burst of air through Buffy's nose and she glanced away from him, glanced back. "Do you?"

He smirked at her again, squinting his eyes just slightly. "I don't often feel confused," he said smoothly, letting his voice take on that unnerving purring quality she recognized as a jolt shot down her spine. Buffy could practically feel those eyes smoldering on her from across the room. "Why does it bother you?"

Why _wouldn't_ it bother her?

"Because…it's weird." He looked like he was about to laugh again, so she jabbed a finger at him. " _And_ it's obvious that it's just me. I mean, people have mentioned it _specifically_. They think you…" _Don't like me._ Buffy shut her eyes and bit back the words that wanted to slip out, feeling pathetic for even thinking them. She inhaled, opened her eyes again. "You don't call Cordelia Miss Chase."

The air between them switched on a dime. She could feel it, palpably. Any levity there might have been in the moment passing between them vanished as his eyes flashed, and Buffy knew instinctively things were about to take a more serious turn.

He clenched his jaw and looked away from her, dropping his voice down low. So low, she had to strain her ears to hear him. "I didn't _sleep_ with Cordelia."

And, _oh._ She started to get it.

"So," she said, unconsciously lowering her own voice. Her eyes were on his face, trying to read his thoughts through his profile. "Calling me by my last name…"

His eyes were still on the floor, but he nodded. Just once. "Helps me distance myself from you."

And if _that_ wasn't the lamest, most ridiculous thing she had yet to hear fall out of his perfect mouth. Distance himself. Distance himself from _her_? Hilarious. It wasn't like she was the one sending _herself_ down to his office on the daily. Wasn't asking him to call her in here, to pepper her with weird, rhetorical questions or give her mundane tasks to keep her busy during the day, make her feel like she was actually doing something only to have the project he'd had Cordelia give her turn out to be a whole lot of _nothing_.

It was Buffy's turn to be angry now. Righteously indignant.

She scoffed, feeling heat in her chest, spreading through her neck and into her cheeks. "You know another way to distance yourself from me?" She asked him in a hissing whisper, raising both brows when he turned to glance back at her. " _Don't_ buzz me into your office every day. _Don't_ have Cordelia send me down here with pointless questions and bogus requests for project updates. _Don't_ stand there and get all innuendo-y, or ask for my opinion when we both know it doesn't matter." She stepped back, holding eye contact with him. "If you really need distance from me, Spike, you have a damn funny way of showing it."

And this time, Buffy didn't wait for him to dismiss her. She turned on her heel and marched out the door, pulling it shut behind her with a slam.

 ** _-Friday, June 7th, 4:45pm-_**

When Cordelia's phone rang on Friday afternoon, Buffy was up and out of her seat before she could even finish her conversation. This time, she didn't bother bringing a copy of her updated list with her. His door was shut this time, and for whatever reason, Buffy didn't feel the need to knock. She twisted the knob and shoved her way into his office, letting the door fall shut again behind her.

"What is this?" she demanded, pointing a finger straight down to her toes for emphasis. "Really. Because I thought we talked yesterday about your needing distance thing."

Spike wasn't fazed by the venom in her voice. He'd been ready for her when she'd stormed in, was looking steadily at her now like he'd been half expecting it. Seated behind his desk, which was, for once, wiped clean. No papers, no cell phone in hand, nothing. Just him, his eyes fixed unwaveringly to hers as he breathed in, exhaled and said, "I don't know what to do with you."

Of all the things she'd been expecting him to say, this wasn't one of them. She paused, shutting her mouth, opening it again. The air sufficiently sucked out of her sails, she blinked at him. "Umm," she muttered, dropping her hand down to her side with a hollow slap. "Okay?"

Spike never looked away from her. Didn't raise his voice. He stayed seated and remained freakishly, creepily calm. The only thing that gave away how much he was actually thinking, feeling, were those eyes. Stormy, swirling as they leveled her. "You were right, yesterday." He began drumming his fingers against the wood of his desk absently. "What you said. If I really wanted to distance myself from you I'd leave you well enough alone." He paused then, tilting his head to the side, considering her. "That, or I'd fire you."

Buffy was confused all over again. They'd been through this before, hadn't they? Twice before, actually, if she was honest about it. Once on her first day. That weird, too close for comfort conversation they'd had about her being late, the reason why she'd been late. Then again, just yesterday afternoon. Although she supposed yesterday's conversation was a little more one-sided, but still.

And Spike was still talking. "…can't, not for that. But I could find a way." He sighed and stilled his fingers, glancing away from her. "It wouldn't be difficult, if I really wanted you gone, to get rid of you."

Buffy's blood started to boil in her veins, her skin feeling hot. Uncomfortably tight. "Then why don't you?"

His eyes snapped back to hers so quickly she actually took a step back. "That's the question of the bleeding hour, innit?" he asked her angrily, his voice icy and just the tiniest bit bitter.

"Well you can't keep doing _this_ ," she whisper-shouted, her voice managing to stay angry even as she attempted to lower it, keep it down. She wasn't even sure at this point what the _this_ was she was referring to. She wasn't sure he knew either. But there _was_ a this, an obvious this, and whatever the this was wasn't doing either of them any favors. "Just…forget about it. Forget about it like I'm trying to forget about it." She looked away from him and sighed. "It was one night. It didn't _mean_ anything."

This had him on his feet, moving quickly around the edge of his desk and side-stepping the chair in front of it, coming within easy feet of her in the span of maybe three seconds. She blinked up at him, taking another stilted step backwards as he came into her space.

"You honestly think that?" he asked her then. The question was simple, straightforward. Nothing about the way he asked her, the tone of his voice or the expression on his face, betrayed anything about what he might have been thinking himself.

When she didn't move to respond immediately, he gave her just the slightest head tilt. Arched a brow, the one Buffy could see from this close had a scar running through it. She'd noticed it that night at the bar, too. Had been tempted to ask him where he'd gotten it. In the end she hadn't, figuring it was one of those things. Too personal, or whatever.

Because _that_ whole thing had done her a world of good so far.

But Buffy held eye contact with him and forced herself to nod, saying, "I do."

Because she did think that. Or at least, she had. Honestly he had her so turned around at this point she wasn't sure which way was up. He'd talked her into a corner, spun her up, effortlessly twisted her life into knots with barely so much as a raise of his eyebrow and tilt of his head.

And he smelled blood. She could see it on his face, the way he was looking at her now. Like a predator.

"Do I seem the type of man to show up at a pub and down tequila on your average Sunday night?" He pressed, starting to slowly approach her again. She took a small step back for every one of his advances, but his legs were longer than hers, and her heels were catching on his stupid beautiful rug. "To just decide, on a whim, to start talkin' to the bird sittin' two chairs down?" Her back came in contact with one his book shelves and his hands shot out automatically to either side of her, boxing her in. "To cheat on my wife?"

She hadn't been this close to him since it happened. Since she'd spend the night, spent the early hours of the morning tangled up in his sheets, kissing his lips, tasting his skin. He smelled the same now as he had then. Mint and smoke and the faintest hint of whatever cologne he was wearing. His eyes held hers for a long moment, then fluttered, dropping to her mouth as his nostrils flared and for a second, just one, she was almost taken in by it all.

Then she remembered where she was, who she was with, and she slipped beneath his arm and back out into the open space of his office. She reached both hands up and pressed into her temples, clearing her head as she told him, "I don't know anything about the type of man you are."

It was almost funny to Buffy, too, that even as she said the words she almost didn't realize how true they were. She'd just been talking. Talking to break whatever spell he'd almost succeeded in weaving around her, again, and talking to clear her head. But it was true. Really true. She didn't have even the slightest idea who the man standing behind her _actually_ was. If we he was closer to her relaxed, funny and seductive not-a-stranger from the bar, or more like the cold, arrogant asshole she'd come to think of William Pratt as over the past week.

Or, and she admitted this grudgingly to herself as she turned back around and caught him staring at her with an expression of thinly disguised hunger, more than likely some hybrid combination of the two.

She shook her head and repeated herself, a little louder this time. "I don't know anything about the type of man you are."

She watched as Spike scoffed, narrowing his eyes as he pushed away from the bookshelf and turned his body fully toward her. "Oh, now we both know that's not true."

"You're the one who said it was a mistake."

He stopped, mid-stride, and blinked at her. Surprised, maybe. He rocked back on his heels and put his left hand in his pants pocket. "And you agree with me."

A beat passed as she thought about it.

Then, softly, giving a tiny defeated shrug of her shoulders, "Why wouldn't I?"

It was a genuine question. There was a part of her that wanted to know, that wanted the answer from him. He'd called that night a mistake. Had spent the last week running her ragged, keeping her constantly on edge at work and making his presence known every time she shut her eyes at night. A mistake. His words, not hers. If she wasn't supposed to agree with him, then he'd better have a pretty damn good reason why.

Spike waited a moment before responding, and Buffy couldn't read whatever it was she saw gleaming in his eyes as he widened them meaningfully. "Because you're smart enough to know that there are things you _don't_ know."

 _Ugh. What does that even_ mean?

"You're right," she told him, throwing her arms out to encompass the whole space of the office. Of him, of her, of the entire made-for-TV-movie situation. "Like, I don't know why we're in here having a conversation about this when you know as well as I do all you have to do is snap your fingers and _poof_!" She snapped her fingers for emphasis. "No more Buffy."

She watched his features darken, his cheeks hollowing as he appeared to suck them in highlighting their razor sharp edges. Narrowing his eyes on her, dropping his voice until it was practically a growl, he said, "It's more _complicated_ than that."

Without missing a beat she said simply, "It shouldn't be."

Because it _shouldn't_ have been. How much more insanely straight forward could things get? He was her boss. He was married. He was her married boss. There was no gray area here, not for her. There wasn't room for gray when it came to someone else's marriage. They'd spent one night together. One. And that was before either of them knew who either of them were. And yeah, sure, she figured he was right. That there were things she didn't know. Things about his _marriage_ she didn't know, if she'd read what he was trying to say to her correctly.

But why he was insisting on insisting that things with her were somehow this big, complicated mess when really things were so, _so_ simple…she honestly couldn't understand it. It was hurting her head to try.

In front of her, Spike was shaking his head. He turned his body so that he was angled profile to her and groaned, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, jaw set. "Buffy—"

Oh, so he was back to calling her Buffy now? What happened to all that _distance_ he needed?

Buffy shook her head again, eyes glazing and moved to cut him off. "You're my _boss_ , Spike," she reminded him forcefully, weaving her way back through the thoughts she'd been working through a moment ago in her head. "God, you shouldn't even be letting me talk to you like this."

His next suggestion hit her like a sucker punch. "You could quit."

Right. Because that would solve all of his problems and absolutely none of hers. Because he'd still be William Pratt, and not Spike. He'd still be married. He'd still be married and a famous book editor and totally, completely inaccessible to her.

Not that she even _wanted_ him to be. Accessible, that is. Not to her.

Not like it mattered. Either way, it was pretty much the dictionary book definition of a lost cause.

Buffy inhaled deeply through her nose, let her eyes fall shut as she exhaled again and said, "I'm not gonna do that." She opened her eyes again and met his, unwavering. "If you really don't want me here, if you can't find a way to work with me, then you'll just have to fire me. Either that or take my advice and treat me just like all the rest of them." She gestured back behind her, toward the hallway, the maze that led back to the cubicles and the desks. "Because this back and forth thing, with you?" She shook her head, fighting to keep her voice steady, just managing to hold her ground even as she noticed he was slowly approaching her again. "It's too much, Spike. Half the time I don't feel like I even know what to call you. I don't know if I'm allowed to, to say what I'm actually thinking or if everything with you is some kind of trick question designed to trip me up." He was a mere foot away from her now, brow furrowed, looking almost worried as he gazed down at her. Buffy paused to catch her breath, and when Spike stepped fully into her personal space, she let him.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked her quietly. Simple, plain. A legitimate question. No double meaning. No silky innuendo. A lot closer on the scale to beseeching than it was to smug, like he needed to know. Like he really wanted her to give him a legitimate answer. Buffy could hear it, whether he'd actually meant for her to or not. She could practically _feel_ it, like it was tangible, rolling off of him and into her in these tiny, pulsing waves. And the way he was looking down at her now. He wasn't physically touching her, but he might as well have been.

Buffy had the sudden urge to grab his face between her hands and crush her lips to his.

She didn't.

"At this point?" she asked him instead. "I don't even care. Just stop _this_."

Her words were a little bit like ice water. Just like that, the spell was broken.

Spike pulled away from her and nodded, his eyes growing cold as he turned his back. She watched him take the three strides to reach his office door. Pulling it open, he stepped to the side and gestured with a cordial sweep of his hand out into the empty hallway.

Not knowing what else to do, knowing there probably wasn't anything else to say and that, after everything she'd just done and said, she should be grateful he wasn't just letting her go on the spot, she turned and headed for the door.

As she passed him, he gave her a forced smile and said, "Have a nice weekend, Miss Summers."

She nodded and stepped out into the hall, and he closed the door behind her. Didn't slam it, just lightly pushed it shut. And it felt a little to Buffy like she probably had her answer.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Friday, June 21st. 6:05pm-_**

Cordelia called her name as soon as she set foot on the elevator Friday afternoon. Buffy skidded to a stop, whirled back around, shoved her hand out in front of the elevator door to keep it from closing. Her boss was standing up at her desk, eyeing her from over the partition, eyes wide. She had her phone held up to her right ear, was frantically waving Buffy back over to their desks with her left hand.

About mid-way through the week before, once her new co-workers had realized they always had to call her name more than once to get her full attention on something, Buffy had been forced to concede that she just couldn't swing suddenly going by her full name. Elizabeth was a beautiful name, and Buffy loved it because her mother had named her after her own mother, but when push came to shove, there were no two ways about it. Buffy was a Buffy, not an Elizabeth. She'd worried, very briefly, that choosing to go by her nickname might throw some people off, or worse, make it harder for them to take her seriously as an editorial staff member. It turned out she needn't have worried.

 _"_ _It's unique,"_ Cordelia had assured her, nodding encouragingly. _"_ _If anything, it makes you stand out more."_

 _"_ _Added bonus,"_ Xander had agreed, _"_ _It's also fun to say."_

So by now, she was used to her co-workers calling her Buffy. What she wasn't used to was hearing her boss shout the name at the top of her lungs from clear across the office, at the end of the day, after she'd already told Buffy she could go home for the weekend. All with a panicked expression on her face.

Buffy hurried back out of the elevator, weaving her way through the people who were packing up for the weekend and back over to her cubicle bank, dropping her purse and notebook down. "What?" She asked, feeling equally panicked now. Had she forgotten to do something? Had she been careless and already made some giant, career ending mistake? "What's wrong?"

Cordelia held her finger up to silence her, mumbling "I'll send her in now" before hanging up the phone and sighing. "Mr. Pratt wants to see you in his office," She told her, leaning toward her and dropping her voice down low. "Now. He didn't say why."

Buffy's insides clenched.

Two weeks. She'd managed to lay low, to fly under Spike's radar for a whole two weeks. She hadn't seen him, hadn't heard from him. Hadn't even been sitting next to Cordelia when she'd taken a phone call from him. Two weeks had gone by, and nothing. She'd actually begun to think that maybe the whole thing would just blow over. That he'd find a way to ignore her. To follow her advice, or her request, or whatever it was their weird conversation that Friday afternoon had turned into and treat her the way he treated all of his editorial interns.

Now, as she gazed at Cordelia's wide brown eyes, the down turned set of her lips, Buffy knew. This was it. He'd found some decent enough, legitimate, reason to get rid of her, and it had only taken him these past two weeks to do it. She should have known this would happen eventually. After that disastrous first week she'd had, all the things she'd done, things she'd _said_ to him. She should have guessed he wouldn't be able to just let it go. She'd all but invited him to fire her on more than one occasion. Besides that, she recognized the situation for what it was. It wasn't like he could just keep his dirty little secret here, working for him. Pretending like nothing had happened. Clearly, he was already paranoid if the first thing he'd thought when he'd seen her that day was that she was trying to blackmail him. Had she actually thought he'd trust her enough after just one night? Trust her to keep her mouth shut long enough for her to complete the six months?

The sun was already starting to sink low in Spike's large window when she stepped into his open office. From where he was standing at his desk, the golden light spilled into the room and glinted off the shiny mahogany of his desk, the platinum color of his hair. She noticed it wasn't perfectly gelled back today. It was mussed, tousled, the curls looking like he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly just before she'd showed up at his door. He hadn't seemed to notice her yet, so she cleared he throat a little awkwardly and stepped a little closer, her fingers clasped together in front of her waist.

His eyes snapped up to hers immediately, and Buffy reflexively pressed her hands into her stomach like she might be able to physically push away the knots tangling there if she tried hard enough. Two weeks. She hadn't seen him in two weeks, and somehow she'd managed to downplay him in her mind. The intensity of his gaze, the angles of his cheeks, the curve of his lips. More than just his looks, though, there was a draw to him. A niggling little pull she felt compelling her toward him, an invisible string. Magnetic. It had been a word she'd used to describe him on a few different occasions.

She didn't think she'd actually meant literally.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked him, trying to reestablish her equilibrium under his scrutiny.

Spike nodded, letting the top page of the stack of papers he'd been looking at fall into place as he straightened. "Shut the door, Miss Summers."

Without hesitating, she did as he'd asked, then turned back around to face him. He'd moved already, but he wasn't leaning against his desk like she'd half expected him to be. He was on the other side of the room, his back to her, one hand extended out toward a row of books on the shelf nearest him. She watched his fingers trail absently over the spines, saw him exhale.

"You asked me to make a decision," he began simply, seeming to find the book he'd been looking for, proceeding to pluck it off the shelf and down into his hand. "I thought I'd let you know that I've made one." He turned back around to face her, the book now lying open in his palm. He gestured with it toward the chair at the center of his office. "Have a seat."

Buffy stood her ground, pressed her hands one last time into her twisting stomach. Then she dropped them down to her sides and breathed out. "No."

"No?" He was looking up at her now, attention diverted from the book in his hands. Too-blue eyes widening, lashes fluttering. He looked almost amused.

Which did pretty much nothing except irritate Buffy. Which was good. Being annoyed was better than being nervous. Annoyance was righteous indignation's younger, just slightly less intimidating cousin. She kept her eyes on his and shook her head, reiterating her spoken word.

"I don't need to 'have a seat'," she told him flatly. Spike looked surprised, eyebrows raising as he eyed her from the short distance between them. Buffy sighed. "Look, if you're gonna do it, just do it, okay? Don't," she waved her hand at him, at the dusty book in his hand, demonstratively, "stand on some sort of weird, patronizing ceremony or whatever on my account. I'm a big girl." And she straightened as if to prove her point, rolling her shoulders back. "I can take it."

His expression shifted slightly then. Growing more amused, his lips quirking up appreciatively. He snapped the book in his hands shut and tossed it down onto his desk. Leaned toward her, lowering his voice. "I'm _very_ aware of that," he all but purred, eyes smoldering.

She got that unfair little tingling jolt down her spine again, fought the urge to physically shiver beneath his gaze. Did the only thing she could think of to cover in the moment.

Act disgusted.

She frowned at him, wrinkling her nose up. She'd been pushing William Pratt's envelope since the moment she'd first set foot in his office. It seemed only fair now to give it one last, final shove. "You know, those innuendoes might have been cute in bed, but weirdly enough they just aren't doing it for me here."

"Is that right?" he asked her, unfazed, still smirking. He looked smug, not insulted. Which only rankled Buffy further. It wasn't _fair_. He was able to ruffle her feathers at the drop of a hat, without even trying, and here she was not even able to tweak a damn tail feather. Infuriating. Another word she'd used to describe him.

"Double entendres aren't exactly work appropriate," she told him frostily.

But Spike only nodded thoughtfully, turning around to brace his hands against the edge of his desk, leaning back into it. "I believe we're currently after hours."

Another involuntary shiver, his words coasting over her skin like silk. Frustrated, any shred of the calm, cool exterior she'd had when she'd stepped inside his office fluttering out the window, she groaned and threw her arms up. "God, Spike, will you just _fire_ me and get it over with."

He laughed at her then. Another one of those real laughs, the kind that split his face in a wide smile and showed off his dimples. Buffy felt a little like he was patting her on the head, like any second he was going to look at her and say something like 'You're adorable' or 'How charmingly naïve', or some other asinine comment that would only confirm for her just how much better off Buffy'd probably be without him in her life, just before he told her to pack up her desk and get out.

But as usual, Spike didn't do what she expected him to.

"Don't want to fire you, pet," he told her once he'd stopped laughing, pushing off the edge of his desk and back up to his feet. "I want to invest in you."

Buffy froze. Hands on her hips, lips forming a little "O". She squinted at him, feeling like there was no way she could have heard him right. _Be kind, rewind._ "What?"

Absently, he started to pace. "I took a read through the manuscript I had Cordelia give you last week. The one that had the quick turn-around. Poncy plot, author had some Nancy boy name." He glanced sideways at her to ask, "You remember it?"

She remembered it. Cordelia had set it on her desk just after lunch on Thursday afternoon and told her she needed it back by the end of the day. Something about needing to push it through before the end of the week. Buffy hadn't known at the time the order had come from Spike, of course. She probably should have guessed, but for whatever reason it hadn't occurred to her.

"What about it?" Buffy asked now, still feeling too thrown to keep a check on her facial expression.

He wasn't looking at her as she spoke, stepping back toward the shelf he'd plucked the book from earlier and scanning the spines. "We took that on as a favor to my father. I had Cordelia give a copy to you, and I worked on one myself." His eyes shifted sideways to her. "Call it…a test."

None of this was sitting very well with Buffy. If she'd ever met a man as singularly, maddeningly mind boggling as William Pratt, she must have blocked it out.

"A test," she repeated, still trying to put two and two together.

Spike was pacing again now, weaving a slow path, a little semi-circle around the right side of his desk, down the wall to the end of the book shelf, then back again. He nodded, reaching back around him to clasp his hands behind his back. "After those…conversations we had a few weeks ago, I'll admit I was curious. About your _work_ ," he drawled, clarifying when he saw the wide-eyed expression on her face. Turning his back on her once more, he continued. "I looked at your notes on that manuscript, compared them to mine. You're smart." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Not that your resume doesn't do a fine job of paintin' you as such, but I needed to see, practically speaking." He stopped pacing then, unclasping his hands and reaching one out to brace against the edge of his desk as he looked at Buffy, eyeing her through his lashes. "You have an eye for the written word that a lot of people don't. Made a lot of decent suggestions, and you made 'em fast. I gave you, what…" he trailed off, turning his eyes up to the ceiling as he appeared to be counting in his head. "Three hours?"

Buffy felt her own lips twitch. "Two and a half."

He dropped his gaze back down to hers and grinned. "You want to be an editor, yeah? That's why you're here. You have the right instincts. An eye for this, but you're green. Any entry level editorial position at any publishing house in this whole sodding country." Spike gestured around him with a sweep of his hand, then dropped it back down to his desk with a smack. "Nobody's gonna hire you unless you have at least a year's worth of experience."

She frowned at him now. He wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know, nothing she hadn't been told repeatedly all through school. She'd known coming into this internship that the six month term was only a fraction of what she'd need before getting a real entry-level position anywhere. "What's your point?"

"My _point_ is that you need practical experience. Good practical experience. And I can give it to you." He paused then, turning his eyes down to the ground and leaning his hip back against his desk casually. His voice was light, airy. "I want you to work for me."

Okay, now he really had lost her.

Buffy raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I already work for you."

"No, Buffy." He shook his head, looking at her with that condescending expression again, like he thought it was kind of adorable that she didn't understand what he was saying. "Work for _me._ Not work for someone else who works for me. Be my intern, not just _an_ intern."

She blinked, frowning. "What, like a personal assistant?" This was sounding more and more to her like a bad idea. Maybe not _Darkness and Shadow_ bad.

But close.

Spike regarded her with the slightest tilt of his head, eyes gleaming in the setting sunlight. "More like a protégé."

Buffy didn't know what to say. A month ago, she would have given anything to be standing in William Pratt's office, having him say these exact words to her. If someone would have told her this would be happening when she'd first applied, she wouldn't even have believed them. And yet, here she was. Here she was, and there he was, and he was standing there looking at her and saying he wanted to mentor her and all Buffy could think about was what it had felt like to have his hands in her hair, the weight of his body over hers.

She tamped her traitorous thoughts down hurriedly, forcing herself to stay present, to only think about what he was saying to her now. Because it wasn't adding up. He'd ignored her for weeks. Or at least, he'd let her think that he'd been ignoring her for weeks, when in reality he'd been having Cordelia give her little top secret assignments and "testing" her? It was all sounding a little Big Brotherish to her. "So you're just… _investing_ in me now?" She said pointedly, using his own creepy, corporate sounding word, resisting the childish urge to throw it up in air quotes. "After two weeks of blissfully acting like I don't exist, you've just up and decided I'm suddenly worth your time?"

Spike stood up straight and put both his hands out in front of himself, palms up in a stopping motion. The expression on his face, the slight twist of his lips, let her know she'd given him a little more information with that last outburst than she'd meant to. She'd been totally relieved when he'd stopped hounding her, buzzing her into his office every day. Glad, even. She definitely hadn't _missed_ him.

That was for sure.

"Look, the decision is ultimately yours," he told her after a moment, cocking a brow before crossing his arms. "Stay on and finish out your internship under Cordelia if you like. Wade through all that unsolicited shite people attempt to pass off as the next overnight success, muck around with useless clerical tasks. No harm, no foul." Buffy watched as he leaned toward her, lowering his voice meaningfully. "But I'm offerin' you something I _never_ offer. Six months working directly with me's as good as a year anywhere else." He shifted back again and shrugged. "Up to you."

Buffy sucked some air in, bit down on the inside of her cheek and stared at him for a minute. He didn't _look_ like he was up to anything. His face was open as he held her gaze. Earnest, impassive. His eyes were a little deeper blue than she'd remembered them being, but that might have just been because of the lighting. Or the way they were sparking at her now.

That was it, she realized. It wasn't his face or his tone of voice or even his words that were making her cautious. It was his eyes. That wicked little glint she could see there in the blue.

She rocked back on her heels, planted her hands on her hips and asked, "What's the catch?"

In response, Spike chuckled. He crossed toward the leather chair that sat in the center of his office, pulled it out and angled it around so it was facing her. Dropping casually into it, smoothing his blue silk tie down as he did, his eyes sparked again. "Why are you so suspicious?"

It was true, he hadn't actually given her any real reason to be suspicious of his intentions. It wasn't like he was making moves on her or anything. Wasn't like he was asking for anything in return for offering her a position under him…beneath… _working_ for him.

 _God._

No, she was definitely the perv here. Not him.

Still, she drummed her fingers against her hips and shrugged, perking a brow as a falsely saccharine smile stretched across her lips. "Call it cautious."

"I just told you," he said simply, leaning forward, bracing his forearms over his thighs and linking his fingers together. His voice was a little rougher now, and low. "You have talent for this. Spend some time learnin' the more..." he shifted his eyes toward her, the right corner of his mouth curving, " _cynical_ ins and outs and you'll be able to land a job anywhere you'd like." His lips turned back down into a line, expression suddenly growing serious. "Make no mistake, luv, this likely won't be all daffodils and teddy bears for you."

Buffy was looking down at him with slightly widened eyes, pursed lips. She shifted from one foot to the other, tapping her heeled toe on his rug. "Is this the part where you tell me all about how you expect the best from your people?"

He shook his head, putting his hands on the armrests of his chair to leverage himself back up to his feet. Forcing Buffy to tip her chin back in order to maintain eye contact. She immediately felt smaller, less in control of the conversation with him above her. Which, she was sure, was exactly what he'd been intending.

"I don't expect the best," he told her breezily, his tone light. But his eyes were all business. "I demand it. There's a difference."

He wasn't even trying to give her a shiver this time. He was being serious, and she knew it.

But he managed to anyway.

Stepping backward, needing a little extra space between them, Buffy straightened again. "So this…offer. This has nothing to do with…?" She purposefully let the sentence trail off, unable to form the words. She leaned toward him slightly, tilting her chin down and raising her eyebrows. Spike just frowned at her, shaking his head. Brow furrowed deeply like he wasn't understanding. Frustrated, Buffy sighed, keeping her eyes wide. She pulled a hand off her hip and gestured evocatively between the two of them.

She watched as he dropped his eyes to the movements of her hand, then back up to hers, finally getting it. He took a step back and arched a cool brow.

"Don't insult me, Buffy. If I wanted that from you I wouldn't have to give you a promotion to get it." He clicked his tongue reproachfully, and his lashes fanned down her body and swept back up as he began to turn away from her. "This has absolutely nothing to do with your talent in _that_ particular arena."

She gasped. Actually _gasped_ , like some feeble, affronted woman in one of those black and white movies her mom used to watch all the time. "My God, does this place even _have_ an HR department?" she asked, her eyes blazing as they followed his path back around to his desk.

Fed up, Spike stopped walking and turned back around to meet Buffy's gaze. He leaned forward and placed his palms flat on the desk top, his eyes wide and open, expression the most guileless Buffy thought she'd ever seen it as he said, "You asked me to forget about that night. It's forgotten." He paused, sucked in a deep breath. "Do you want to learn this industry from me, or not?"

She swallowed whatever words she'd been about to say and stared at him.

The short answer? A resounding yes. The long answer? The seventy-five thousand different reasons Buffy could think of, just off the top of her head, why this was fifteen metric tons of bad…followed by a resounding yes. This is exactly what she'd wanted, what she'd been not so secretly hoping for since she'd finally decided to apply for the internship at Pratt all those months ago. This moment, right here. William Pratt standing in his office, looking at her, offering her a chance to basically be mentored by him. It's what she'd wanted, what she never actually thought she'd get. And he said it was based off her skill, her _editing_ skill, and nothing else. Said he'd taken her advice and made with the one night stand amnesia. So why shouldn't she believe him? He wanted to teach her about the industry. He wanted to be her mentor. This felt an awful lot like one of those gift horses people were always talking about and she wasn't about to play dentist.

So she finally nodded and said, "I do."

"Right then." Spike pushed off the mahogany wood with a nod and moved around toward his own wing back chair, dropping down into it and scooting himself up toward the edge of his desk. He glanced back up at Buffy, lips pursed like he was about to say something, and then groaned. "Christ, don't look so bloody suspicious. This is just smart business." His lashes fluttered as he gazed at her, then turned his attention down to the paperwork he was filling out now. "If you're goin' to be my competition someday I'd best learn all your weaknesses now, yeah?"

Buffy gave him a sardonic look, but she could feel her own lips starting to curve up at the edges. "Trying to make me _less_ suspicious?"

"Your workload'll increase," Spike was saying now, acting like he was ignoring her but glancing up at her with twinkling eyes just once to show he'd acknowledged her compliance. "And you'll take phone calls and assignments directly from me, rather than going through Cordelia. You might be expected to make appearances in some of my meetings," She watched as his pen jumped to the bottom of the paper in front of him, finishing it off with his wildly scribbled signature and a flourish, "Or possibly attend editorial and oubliahing boards. Nothin' else will change too much." He scanned the document once over quickly, then took it in his hand and extended it out to her. "Do you have any questions?"

Frowning, Buffy reached out and took it from him. It had _ATTN: Cordelia Chase_ typed at the top, and a bunch of smaller text dotted with edits and mark outs made by Spike's pen throughout. She scanned over the bolder texts quickly. It was paperwork regarding her official internship parameters, transferring her directly under him for the remainder of her six month term at Pratt Publishing.

She glanced back up at him, wondering why she suddenly felt like she'd just signed a deal with the Devil. "No, I…no." She cleared her throat. "Thank you, Mr. Pratt."

"You can call me Spike if it's easier." He leaned back in his chair, giving her a small, encouraging nod when she raised her eyebrows in question. "'S fine. You won't be the only person here doin' it anyway."

Oh.

Well, Buffy guessed that made it a little less weird then. She bit down on her lip and nodded, agreeing. Thought about it. Then, "Only if you're done with that wiggy Miss Summers crap."

Spike was pleased by this. "Doesn't take much to get under that skin of yours, does it, pet?"

She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, shaking her head before she levelled him with narrowed green eyes. "Don't look so smug. It bothered me because _other_ people noticed. Cordelia, Xander." She frowned thinking about stupid elevator lady, Harmony, wrinkling her nose. "That witch over in marketing."

Either Spike knew exactly who she was referring to, or he was patronizing her, because he nodded and said, "I see." But it sounded like he really didn't. "Lesson the first, luv. The opinions of other people don't matter."

She tilted her head to the side and gave him a dry look. _Right._ "Says the man who makes his living off of other people's opinions."

"Opinions of the _books_ I work to publish, Buffy." He shook his head, looking like he was fighting to keep a smile off his face. "Not of me."

Buffy was having a hard time keeping a smile off her own lips as the two of them bantered back and forth good-naturedly. For once. Or, for twice, she guessed, if they were counting that first night. Which they weren't. Of course they weren't. Because they were both squarely in the business of forgetting about torrid one night affairs.

She shoved those thoughts aside and asked, "So you don't care what other people think of you?"

And with a casual tilt of his chin, a flash of that infuriatingly cocky grin, he managed to make her believe that he really didn't. Then, just like he'd read her mind, he said, "If I did, I'd have picked a less aggressive industry to excel in."

"And so modest," Buffy mumbled under her breath, just loud enough that she knew he could heard her.

Ignoring her attempted jibe, Spike turned down to pull open the drawer tucked into the right side of his desk. "We start Monday."

Buffy blinked at him, feeling like they'd just gone zero to sixty. All business, all the time. "Start with…?"

"These," he said, hefting a massive stack of papers up onto his desk and sliding them toward her, a wicked little smile on his lips. Buffy stared at the stack of papers, blinking rapidly. There had to have been three, maybe four manuscripts sitting on his desk in front of her. She looked back up and gaped at him, any momentary camaraderie she'd felt with him vanishing like someone had just snapped their fingers.

Spike just grinned and sat back, propping his elbow up on an armrest and leaning his head down into his hand. "Hope you didn't have big plans this weekend."

 ** _-Saturday, June 22nd. 6:45pm-_**

Buffy sat on the floor in front of the glass coffee table, her legs comfortably criss-crossed beneath her, page after page of text spread out around her in a little half circle. The pages she'd finished going through were flecked with red ink, little multi-colored tabs sticking out along the edges wherever she'd made more detailed notes. The pages she'd yet to get to were already starting to blur together.

She'd been at it for hours. Started at the kitchen table but moved when she realized she needed more space. She'd set up camp at the coffee table after that, seated on the sofa. Which had worked fine for a little while, until all the hunching over she'd been forced to do had made her spine make some lovely little cracking sounds. Finally, she'd made the shift to the floor. Plenty of room, and a place to press her back into.

"How many cups of coffee is that?" Faith asked from behind her. Buffy paused in her writing, turning back around to glance over her shoulder as her roommate walked out of her bedroom and into the main living space. She raised a brow as she finished doing up her crisp white button down. "29?"

Buffy smiled at the brunette, dropping her pen down onto her pages with a smack and reaching up to pull her glasses off. "Something like that," she agreed, picking her mug off the coffee table and sipping at it, realizing it was freezing cold and making a face. "Ugh. I think I've reached the point of stomach lining erosion."

Faith laughed, finished buttoning her top, adjusted the folds of her black mini skirt and dropped down onto the sofa's armrest in a movement that was equal parts graceful and showy. "Come on, B," she said, pressing her hand into the nearby cushion and leaning into it. "Just come with me to the restaurant."

It was the fourth time in the last hour her roommate had made the same suggestion, and even though Buffy was glad for the short reprieve each micro interruption from Faith had brought her, she was getting a little tired of the back and forth.

"And do what?" she asked again, looking down at the hand that held her glasses, using the grip of her thumb and forefinger to spin them around in a circle.

" _Not_ be stuck in our apartment by yourself on a Saturday night." She paused for dramatic effect, but Buffy could practically say the word with her by now. " _Again_."

It was true, she hadn't been much for going out. Not since the infamous night. She'd seen just how good going out in Boston was for her, and she hadn't been in a huge rush to just dive right back in after her first attempt had landed so firmly on the side of failing miserably. Faith had invited her places, as had Xander and even Cordelia on a couple occasions. She'd always found an excuse not to go, work, usually, being her go to.

Now though, it was true. "I have work to do, Faith."

"You _always_ have work to do," Faith grumbled, and Buffy watched as her roommate rolled her eyes and got back to her feet, crossing the small apartment to grab her purse and her keys off the top of a barstool. "You've been holed up inside all day. Don't you want to get out?"

"What am I going to do at the restaurant?" Buffy asked her, pushing her glasses back on and picking up her red pen again. "Watch you wait tables? Sounds thrilling."

"We have a bar, you know." She stepped closer to Buffy and made a show of tapping her stack of papers with her toe. "You could bring all this junk with you and set up shop there."

Buffy shifted her manuscripts away from Faith's stockinged foot and glanced up at her, giving her a sarcastic smile. "Because my boss wouldn't frown on me drinking on the job."

Faith laughed at that. A low, infectious kind of chuckle that had her voice taking on a slightly rasping quality when she spoke again. "Hey, I didn't say anything about drinking." Then she frowned, shaking her head and gesturing toward the pile of papers spread out in the floor again, this time with her hand. "What kind of grade A asshole hands out homework assignments, anyway?"

Buffy looked out at her roommate from behind the lenses of her glasses and smirked at her. For initially not being so sure about the other girl, she'd found that she really liked her. Yes, she actually was a little on the crazy side. But Buffy also had found that she was fun, and loyal, and her intentions were almost always well meaning.

She'd jumped right on the Spike-bashing train as soon as Buffy'd told her about the special kind of hell he'd put her through with that awful manuscript her first day and hadn't looked back since. Not that Faith knew, not that _anybody_ knew, that Buffy's boss was also her mystery man from her first night out in Boston. From the way Buffy spoke about them, no one would ever guess they could possibly be the same person.

She still had a little trouble reconciling that herself.

 _What kind of Grade A asshole?_ Her kind, apparently.

"The kind I work for," she said out loud, wedging the bottom of her pen into her mouth so she could pull her hair back into a ponytail. "Look, I'm really fine." She pulled her hair tight and grabbed the pen again. "I want to get through all this so I don't have to spend all day tomorrow doing it, too." When Faith hesitated with her hand on the door, Buffy sighed and glanced back up, mock glaring at her. She shooed her with her left hand. "Go. Work. Make money so we can pay rent." That last part a little under her breath as she heard the deadbolt being thrown, the tell-tale squeaking of the door on its hinges when it was pulled open. Then she remembered. "Oh, Faith—"

The brunette was halfway out the door already, not bothering to turn around as she let the door close behind her and shouted, "I'll bring you back a slice of cheesecake."

Buffy laughed lightly and turned back down at her work.

 ** _-Sunday, June 23rd. 1:23am-_**

It was the rattle of a key, followed by the familiar sound of the deadbolt sliding out of place that had Buffy jolting back awake. Blinking, a little dazed, her bleary vision came into focus just in time to see Faith sauntering back into their apartment, one hand carrying a little brown doggy bag and the other, her swanky-restaurant-required black patent leather pumps.

She kicked the door shut behind her with one stockinged foot and let the heels clatter unceremoniously to the floor, eyeing Buffy, her brow furrowed. "You still awake?"

Buffy nodded. "Still awake," she affirmed, her voice still a little fuzzy with sleep. She reached a hand up to stifle a yawn, shaking her head to clear it. "Barely."

She wasn't sure exactly when she'd nodded off, though the trailing red line her pen had left directly down the middle of page 205 of a particularly misguided attempt at a reimagined sci-fi version of _Hamlet_ was her indication of _why_. If there was ever a time when the word excruciating applied to the act of reading, she was sure it was only within the context of reading that. Even just glancing back down at the manuscript now was enough to make her want to slump over into the fetal position and call the whole thing off, potential mentorship with William H. Pratt be damned.

Faith gave her a knowing smirk before turning around and securing the deadbolt on the front door. "God," she said laughingly, "I kinda thought you'd be passed out face down in that mountain of paper by now."

"There've been a couple close calls," Buffy agreed, reaching blindly for the glass table and her abandoned mug, the cell phone she'd left resting face down beside it. She glanced at the glowing digital clock reflected back at her, noted she had no missed calls or messages, then raised her cold coffee in salute to her roommate. "Enter, caffeine."

She took too big of a swig and winced, forcing the bitter black liquid down before she could add _coffee stain_ to the list of horrors her poor manuscripts had been forced to endure over the weekend. Then again, they had seen pretty fit to torture her, so maybe they deserved it.

Red pen, pizza sauce, cracker crumbs, and one artful baby pink nail polish stain Buffy'd left on the smutty romance novel she'd actually found herself getting _way_ too into on Friday night. She never would have guessed the name Reginald could be so steamy.

"You're a damn mess, B. Here," Faith said, leaning around the sofa to set the brown paper bag she'd been carrying on the coffee table, moving for the far end of the apartment. "Sustenance. The kind that _won't_ erode your stomach lining." She tossed Buffy a Cheshire grin over her shoulder as she disappeared into her bedroom. "Probably."

Buffy rolled her eyes but grabbed up the brown paper bag greedily, waking up a little more as she pealed it open and reached inside. As promised, as she promised Buffy every Saturday night, she'd brought her home a piece of her pastry chef's "world famous" cheesecake. This week, it was chocolate chip.

"Come to mama," Buffy murmured, digging the plastic fork Sergio had placed inside the bag beside her plastic container of nirvana, popping it open and scooping herself up some. She placed the bite in her mouth and moaned a little, letting her eyes fall shut again. A zillion calories, and worth every bite.

She was nearly halfway finished with her cake by the time Faith emerged from her bedroom, flannel pajama pants and a ripped up band t-shirt replacing the done up skirt and blouse.

"So," Buffy began absently around another forkful of chocolate chip goodness, "how was work?"

Dropping onto the sofa, sprawling out, one hand braced behind her head, Faith shrugged. "Interesting."

"Mmm, oh," Buffy put the fork down and swallowed her last bite, shoving the plastic container away from her and somehow managing to smear cheesecake on the bottom of page 206. "Like, _made a crap ton in tips to help cover Buffy's half of the rent_ interesting, or _met a rich investment banker to help cover Buffy's half of the rent_ type interesting?" Not that she needed that much help to cover her half. Or any, she guessed now. According to the paper Spike had given her detailing his little pseudo promotion, she was actually set to start making just slightly more working as his personal intern than she had before. She hadn't told anyone except for Faith and Dawn that she'd been a little concerned about being able to make her first month, but she was thinking now it wouldn't be an issue.

"Way more interesting than either of those," came the vague response from her roommate now. Buffy was starting to feel the effects of sitting in the same position all day, starting to feel sleepy all over again now that her little cake-shaped reward was gone, and she wasn't really in the mod to play twenty questions, anyway.

"It's way too late for you to be playing crypto girl," she grumbled at the brunette, twisting her body around so she could brace her shoulder against the bottom of the sofa, seated with her knees tucked against her chest on the floor. "What was so interesting?"

Turning her heavily lined eyes down to her hand, making a show of checking out the shiny black lacquer she seemed to have permanently painted on, she said, "I met your grade A asshole."

Every muscle in her body jolted, her eyes going comically wide as she sat up, ram rod straight. "Spike?"

Faith's eyes widened, too. " _Spike_?"

"I mean…" _Oh, boy._ "Yeah, it's just some…goofy nickname." Buffy forced a casual laugh but it came out sounding way too high. Faith fixed her with a thin raised brow. "Just jokes around the office. Cause, ya know, he's such a…" she trailed off and cleared her throat, letting the bright small fall. "You met Mr. Pratt?"

Whether her roommate was buying her stammered excuse or not, Buffy couldn't tell. But if she wasn't, she didn't press the issue. Just nodded and reclined back against the sofa again. "Yeah, I waited on him. Which brings me right back around to the interesting." She rolled over onto her side, striking a faux seductive pose and propping her chin up on her hand. "When exactly were you planning on telling me that your boss is _smokin'_ hot."

Buffy wrinkled her nose up and whined. "Faith."

"No, seriously," she insisted, unfazed. "Like, silver fox hot. What is he, like forty?"

Buffy rankled a little at her roommate's estimation of Spike's age, but managed to keep her indignation to herself.

"He's thirty-seven," she corrected her placidly, still making a slightly disgusted face. A completely, totally, one hundred percent put-upon disgusted face, because on the inside she was dying a little. Practically bursting at the seams to spill her Spike-flavored beans all over the floor. "Call me crazy, but I don't spend a whole lot of time at work thinking about how 'smoking hot' my boss may or may not be."

Which totally wasn't a lie, even with her being on the teetering edge of bean spillage. Buffy _hadn't_ spent much time thinking about it. Not lately, at least. Not over the past two weeks. In fact, she actively hadn't thought about how "smoking hot" some people might consider Spike to be at all, hadn't even let it cross her mind.

Until yesterday afternoon.

And Faith had caught her anyway, sitting bolt upright on the sofa and jabbing a knowing finger at her. "So you _have_ noticed."

Dying. _Dying, dying, dying._

"Were his looks the only thing about him _you_ noticed?" Buffy asked her meaningfully, more just to turn the conversation into less shark infested waters than because she really cared or wanted to hear about whichever side of Spike/William Faith had been subjected to tonight. Although if she was honest with herself, she did kind of want to know that. If he spent the night being charming and funny, sneakily flirting with her roommate, all the while not knowing who she was or that she'd come running home to fill Buffy in on all the juicy details.

"No." Seeming pleased to have more than just Spike's silver fox status to report on, Faith's posture relaxed back into the cushions. "Also noticed he isn't nearly as big of a jerk as you made him out to be. Bought a bottle of Dom, gave me this wicked huge tip." She paused, glancing absently down at her finger nails and bringing one up to her mouth, biting down on it. "His wife kinda sucks, though."

Buffy coughed, loudly. Choked on the air she'd just inhaled through her nose and sort of sputtered, caught off guard.

Faith eyed her cautiously, frowning. "You okay?"

"Fine," Buffy mumbled, coughing again, reaching a hand up to press against her chest. "Wrong tube for air flow." She forced herself to relax again, letting her shoulder sink casually against the sofa, voice light. "You met his wife?"

"Yeah," Faith said simply, bringing her hand back down to her lap and shrugging. "Well, not so much met as _endured_." Then she laughed humorlessly, shaking her head. "Talk about your frigid bitch…"

And she was still talking, Buffy knew she was still talking, but she had already begun to tune her out. Blinking, staring straight ahead at her friend but not really seeing her. Of all the possible juicy details scenarios she'd been mentally preparing for, that was one she hadn't counted on. She wasn't sure why. She probably should have figured that if Spike was out at Faith's restaurant for dinner on a Saturday night that he wouldn't have been there alone, she just hadn't quite let herself put the pieces of the puzzle together. Of _course_ he'd been there with his wife. Out at a romantic dinner with his wife. On a _date_ with his wife. Sure, Buffy knew she should have expected that. That Spike should be going out with the woman he was married to, that _that_ was normal. Right. The thing that had happened between them? Very _not_ right. She also knew she had zero reason, less than zero reason, to be feeling the way she was now. The gnawing, churning feeling in the pit of her stomach that was making its way up into her chest even now. She didn't want to call it jealousy. Really, _really_ didn't.

And the words were out before she realized she was even speaking again. "Was she pretty?"

Her question had interrupted Faith mid-tirade. She stopped talking abruptly and glanced back down toward Buffy. "Huh?"

"His wife," Buffy clarified, still going for a sort of casual disinterest. "Was she pretty?"

Looking just a little suspicious now, Faith arched a brow. "If you're into that whole obvious beauty thing." A beat. "Why?"

No, that twisting, churning feeling was definitely jealousy. Stupid, aching, irrational jealousy. That Buffy immediately tried to stifle, shoving it down deep into the box labeled _Wrong_ at the back of her mind as she managed a shrug. "Just kind of curious what kind of woman he'd be married to," she lied, surprised at how easily she was able to pull the words out of thin air. Maybe because they were only a half-lie. There was a part of her that was genuinely curious about his wife. Mrs. Pratt. What she looks like…that was just a tiny piece of what she wanted to know. "It's pretty much all work with him. Employees don't normally get a peek behind the curtain."

"Oh." Faith blinked once, and then the suspicious expression melted off her face. "Well, yeah. She was pretty. He was pretty. They made a very pretty couple. Didn't seem to have much to say to each other, though." She yawned then, reaching her arms up over her head and stretching like a cat before swinging her legs back over the sofa and standing up. "At least not while I was around."

The knot in her stomach loosened a little and a new feeling, one she was tempted to call relief, started to spread its way through her chest as the brunette's words registered. Still, very much in the bad, wrong category…but felt somehow a little less bad, wrong than the jealousy had. Which was something that was probably a red flag in and of itself, but it was late and Buffy was tired and properly controlling her increasingly haywire emotions just didn't seem like it was in the cards at the moment.

Buffy watched from her perch on the floor as her roommate turned and started padding softly, barefoot back out of the living room and toward her bedroom.

"Hey, Faith?" she asked.

The other girl paused at her bedroom door, both hands braced against the doorjamb as she turned to glance back over her shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Were they just there having dinner, or-?"

Faith shook her head. "They were celebrating their anniversary."

The words hit her like ice water, freezing her where she sat, staring over the top of the sofa as Faith said goodnight and her door clicked shut.

Buffy slowly turned around, criss-crossing her legs beneath her again. Numbly, she reached for her red pen again. She still had roughly fifty pages left to go in the Shakespearean science fiction, and she'd planned on finishing it tonight. Trying to focus, trying to force any and every thought about Spike and his obviously beautiful wife and their wedding anniversary out of her head, she shook her head. Read through a few paragraphs. Made a few half-hearted notes. But it wasn't working, and she was still feeling a little sick to her stomach, so she gave up and sighed. Dropping her pen and shoving her manuscripts out of the way, Buffy grabbed for her cell phone.

She unlocked the screen and moved to her contact list, sliding down until she'd found the name and number she hadn't quite realized she'd been looking for. Sucking in a deep breath, her fingers flying furiously across the keypad, she hardly even realized what she was doing until she was already in the middle of doing it.

 _Sorry. Things have been crazy here. Job is great._

She paused a moment, thinking about it briefly before she sighed, shook her head and typed out the final three words.

 _Miss you, too._

She hit send, then she shut her phone off and headed for her own room, leaving the mess of papers scattered across the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

**_-Monday, June 24th. 8:52am-_**

Buffy should never have sent that message to Angel.

She'd known it the second she'd hit send. That it was a mistake. God, she hadn't even known why she felt the sudden urge to do it at all, it had been _weeks_ since he'd messaged her. If pressed, she might admit that it had been a gut reaction. A gut reaction to her gut reaction of being jealous over a married man and his wife. She hadn't wanted to feel jealous. Hadn't wanted to feel _anything._ So she'd jumped on the first semi-distracting action she could think of.

So yeah, she knew she shouldn't have texted him. She knew it now as she walked down the sidewalk toward work, an extra-large Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and her cell phone in the other. Knew it now as she let her eyes scan the screen, the two new messages she'd received a moment ago while she'd been standing in line to get said giant cup of coffee.

 **Angel. 6/24, 8:45am** _No problem. Know you must be busy, glad things are going well._

But it was the second text, the one that had come through not even a minute later, that had really solidified how very much she shouldn't have texted him.

 **Angel. 6/24, 8:46am** _It's really good to hear from you._

Buffy read the message one last time as she stepped up to the revolving door and pushed her way into the lobby, finally deciding just to put her phone away and deal with her text from the ex later, when she had her head on a little less lopsided. When she didn't already feel so flustered.

When she wasn't going to have to be sitting across from Spike all day.

 ** _-Sunday, June 23rd. 7:16pm-_**

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Buffy lifted the lid off the boiling water, rushing to lower the burner before it could bubble over the top. The giant sauce pot sitting next to it was bubbling too, the scent of tomatoes and garlic and basil filling the tiny kitchen as her roommate danced to the music she had blasting from her laptop's speakers.

"Will you relax already?" Faith asked, shimmying around her, pulling the big wooden spoon out of the bubbling marinara to taste test it. "One of us actually knows their way around a mean pasta sauce." She did a spin and a dip in time with the music, and Buffy stepped out of the way just in time to avoid getting splattered with sauce when a bubble burst out of the pot.

"And one of us knows who'll be cleaning said pasta sauce off the floor when this is all over."

Beside her, Faith groaned good naturedly and rolled her eyes. "You know what they say about heat and kitchens, right?"

Buffy was opening her mouth to deliver some snappy comeback when her cell phone rang. Vibrating on the countertop, the screen lighting up. She reached for it and picked it up, frowning down at it, not recognizing the number that was flashing across the screen. It was a Boston area code, though, so she figured it probably wasn't exactly a telemarketer. She held up her hand to indicate to Faith to turn the music down, then lifted her phone up to her ear and gave her standard greeting for unknown callers. "Buffy Summers."

"You sound like you're in a good mood."

Buffy's brow furrowed. "Spike?"

From her position in front of the stove, Faith's eyebrows shot sky high. Her lips quirked and she mouthed the name back to her, wiggling her hips suggestively. She'd been talking about Buffy's 'foxy' boss all afternoon, making little suggestive comments here and there, verbally wondering out loud if his nickname had come from more than just his "tough as nails" work persona.

Buffy made an exasperated face at her.

In her ear, the fox in question asked, "Not catchin' you at a bad time am I?"

"I…no, no." Faith had stepped up closer to Buffy, taking the wooden spoon she'd been using to stir the marinara and making a show of raising it to her lips and licking the red sauce off the tip seductively. "I was just…making dinner." Buffy took the spoon from Faith's hand and swatted her lightly with it, shaking her head. The brunette just laughed and took the spoon back, returning to the pasta sauce.

On the other line, Spike was speaking again. "Just had a couple notes for you 'bout tomorrow. Shouldn't take long." A beat. "You cook?"

He sounded amused.

"Not well," Buffy admitted, stepping out of the kitchenette and into the living room where she could hear him a little better. "How'd you even get this number?"

When he responded, she could practically hear him smirking. "I have my ways."

Buffy rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. "You asked Cordelia for it."

Spike pouted. "Ruin all my bloody fun, why don't you."

"You and I have very different definitions of fun," she told him flatly, reaching her free hand up to run it through her hair, pinning it with her fingers at the crown of her head.

"Tell me," Spike said then, ignoring her lame attempt at a dig. "What is it you're currently attemptin' to cook?" In the background, she heard the tell-tale creaking of leather and couldn't keep herself from imagining him leaning back in his office chair. "You've got me all _curious_."

How he managed to make everything, everything, sound like an innuendo was completely beyond her. She wondered briefly if it was something he did on purpose, or if it was just…him.

The man could make a children's book sound like _Penthouse_.

"Spike," she said, lowering her voice a little. "I don't—

"My guess?" He interrupted her, cutting off her protest before she could even think about what it was she was actually protesting. "Pasta, of some sort. Probably a red based sauce. Am I close?"

Close. That was a word for it. On impulse, Buffy turned toward the far wall, the two paned windows that looked out towards the apartment building opposite hers.

The drapes were pulled shut, the same way they'd been since that afternoon.

Feeling weirdly exposed, Buffy shook her head and mumbled, "Has anyone ever told you that's insanely creepy?"

Spike chuckled, obviously pleased. "Not hard to figure. Difficult to bollocks that up too badly." He paused, considering. Then, his voice low in her ear, "You wearin' one of those frilly little aprons, too?"

Okay, yeah. She was pretty sure _that one_ had been on purpose.

This conversation was getting away from her, rapidly getting to be a lot less about work and a lot more about things it…definitely shouldn't have been getting to be about. Buffy wondered if he'd be willing to be so overtly flirtatious with her if he knew what she knew. If he knew what Faith had told her about the night before.

Straightening up, dropping her hand out of her hair, she sighed. Loudly. "You said you had notes for me?" she asked, attempting none too subtly to direct the phone call back into a professional capacity.

The other line went silent for maybe three endlessly long second before she heard Spike clear his throat. "Right. Just wanted to let you know you'll report directly to my office tomorrow morning."

Buffy paused, listening, waiting for him to go on. He didn't. "That's it?" she asked after a minute, casting a glance back toward Faith who was watching her intently, dark eyes narrowed. Marinara sauce forgotten.

"That's it." And she swore she heard him sigh before he said, "Have a good night, Buffy."

There was a beep on the other line, and the call ended.

Pulling the phone away from her ear, frowning, Buffy felt a weird twisting start to pick up in her stomach again. She could feel Faith's eyes on her, though, so she forced herself to look up. She shrugged. "Sorry," she said casually, "Had to take that." She smiled, hoped it didn't look as strained as it felt.

"So," the brunette began slowly, sticking the wooden spoon back in the sauce pot and turning to face her, hands on her hips. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing," Buffy said quickly, maybe too quickly, stepping back toward the kitchen and setting her phone face down on the counter. "Just work."

"Funny," Faith said casually. "Sounded like a personal call to me."

 ** _-Monday, June 24th. 9:01am-_**

The phone call had done its share to wig her out, yeah, but it had been Faith's words that had left Buffy spun the most. Even now, as she made her way through the twelfth floor office, past her cubicle with a smile and wave to Xander, past the glassed in conference room and over toward the long hallway, she couldn't put her finger on exactly why. It wasn't like Faith had come right out and accused Buffy of anything. And it wasn't like Faith would have done anything even remotely close to judging her if she had decided to do that bean spilling.

Maybe it was the fact that it had been obvious to her, even just from hearing one side of the conversation, that things between Buffy and Spike weren't exactly of the most strictly platonic nature that had her feeling a little squicked.

But that had been _his_ fault. Or at least, that's what she'd convinced herself of last night. He'd called her. And he'd been funny. And charming. And flirty. And he'd reminded her in that five minute phone call _so_ much of the way he'd been with her the night they met. Had made her forget, just for a minute, how completely unattainable he was. Made her forget that things were supposed to be business, not personal.

It was easy for him to make her forget.

So she had to wonder now, again, if this was a mistake. If taking his offer to mentor her was basically the equivalent of jumping straight out of the proverbial frying pan and into the very real fire. Was she fooling herself, thinking she could do this? Work for him, sit across from him every day for hours at a time and just…learn from him? She had asked him to forget about that night. She had tried to forget about it herself. Was still trying to.

Trying and failing, but still. Trying.

A _nd failing._

And she couldn't help but second guess herself again as she reached his office, opened the door and stepped inside.

"You're late."

They were the first words out of his mouth as he flicked his gaze up to her.

Buffy stopped mid-stride, her heel catching a little on his rug. She frowned. "What?" Her eyes found the clock on the bookshelf, then his again. "It's two minutes past nine."

"Which would make you two minutes late," he told her simply, drumming the fingers of his right hand on wood.

Buffy blinked at him. "You can't be serious."

"I'm very serious," he said, drumming his fingers once more before pulling his hand back. "Time is money, pet. Or haven't you heard?" He gestured toward the chair opposite him, and Buffy could see as she approached that he'd cleared a space for her on this side of his desk. Where before there had been a large, matted publisher's calendar, there was now only smooth mahogany. To the right, beside the black table lamp, sat a small blue and white ceramic vase that held a collection of red and black pens. Beside it, a matching dish that held paper clips and a stack of brightly colored Post-It notes.

She wondered, for just a moment, if he'd picked out the little blue and white set himself, or if he'd had Cordelia do it.

Then she decided it'd probably be better if she didn't know.

"You waitin' on an invitation?" Spike asked her suddenly, his voice rough. Buffy glanced back up at him, and he gestured once more to the chair. "Have a seat," he told her impatiently, waiting until she'd followed his command before continuing. "We have a lot to get through. Do you have those copies I gave you Friday?"

Not trusting her voice to speak at the moment, Buffy just nodded. She set her bag down on the floor, set her coffee down beside it and pulled out the manuscripts that had kept her constant company through the weekend.

Spike took them from her and thumbed through them, nodding as he did. "Good," he said finally, nodding curtly as he set them back down. "I want to start with _Hollow Hill_."

He pulled the self-described thriller out of the stack and handed it back to her. Buffy took it from him, meeting his gaze steadily and doing her best not to think about why he was being all Jekyll and Hyde with her this morning. She'd barely been in the office for five minutes and already she felt like she'd done several things wrong, though she couldn't actually pinpoint what.

And all she could think was that if this kept up, it wouldn't be that hard for her after all.

To keep things far from personal.

- ** _Monday, June 24th. 11:15am-_**

Buffy paused and looked up from her work, her fingers poised on the keyboard of her laptop, midway through copying down and fleshing out her _Hollow Hill_ notes so Spike could look at them and compare them to his.

He was working diligently across the desk from her, brow furrowed, his eyes darting back and forth between the manuscript he was reading and the page his pen was flying over. Buffy tore her eyes away from his face and looked down to the sheet of lined paper in front of him, his looping cursive stretching across a little more than half of it.

Why he insisted on hand copying his scribbled margin notes and not typing them up in a Word doc like…well, everyone else, she didn't understand. To her, it made no sense. And Buffy hated when things didn't make sense.

Typing was faster. Clearer. More efficient.

E _asier_.

Spike's response when she'd mentioned this to him had been predictable, and smug. _"_ _Easier isn't always better, luv."_

She had to admit now though, after watching him meticulously hand copy his notes for the past half hour, that she might kind of get it. Why he chose to do it that way. It was harder, less convenient. And it was old school. Older than old school, probably, because Buffy was pretty certain type writers had been a thing before computers made their big entrance. But it also felt a little more pure. Pure was the word she'd settled on, watching the steady movement of his ballpoint pen coasting across the paper. And she could also admit, looking at the small stack of lined pages beside him, row after row of his black cursive, that there was something incredibly satisfying about the _written_ word.

She watched now as his pen flew to the next line of the page, his hand moving fluidly, left arm brushing and shifting over the paper as he finished the sentence he'd been writing with a flourish.

And it struck her.

"That's why you always have your shirt sleeves rolled up?" She asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence between them just a little too loudly.

Spike paused, his pen still gripped in his left hand, the tip pressed to the paper like he'd been just about to start writing another word. "What's why I always have my shirt sleeves rolled up?"

Buffy reached up and lowered the top of her laptop a little so she could see better over it, pointing toward his left forearm. "Ink stains."

Spike's furrowed brow smoothed over as he looked at her, his lips curving slightly as he set his pen down and lifted his arm up to show her. Sure enough, there were little black smudges dotting his bared skin, beginning at his wrist and ending just below where he'd cuffed the white dress shirt.

She'd noticed the thing about his shirts her first week. Her first day, she'd thought it was just a one time thing, that maybe he'd spilled on his sleeve and had wanted to cover it up. But it had been the same every other time she'd seen him, and she'd begun to wonder why he wouldn't just wear short sleeves or something if it bothered him that much to have fabric covering his forearms.

Buffy laughed to herself, shaking her head. "And here I thought that was just some bizzaro fashion statement."

Spike smirked at her wryly. "I'm nothin' if not practical."

"Because rinsing your hair in peroxide is practical," she told him sarcastically, catching the appreciative glint in his eye just as she turned her attention back to her own notes and her laptop.

They fell into an easier silence after that. Less tense, more companionable. For a while, all there was the sound of his pen scratching paper and her fingers clicking over the keys.

Then Spike put his pen down.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you this mornin'," he began, his eyes down on his work. He sighed. "Behind is all. Didn't get as much work done over the weekend as I would've liked."

Buffy froze at the mention of the weekend. Tearing her gaze away from her work, she stared at him. Eyes wide, lashes fluttering. Immediately engaged in an internal battle of whether or not she should risk mentioning Faith, should risk bringing up his wife. Their anniversary.

Spike looked up at her then, and he must have misunderstood her expression because he chuckled and leaned back. "What, you thought I'd just dump all this on you and not take some myself?" He shook his head and tsked at her, picking up his pen and twirling it expertly in his fingers. "Had to have somethin' to compare that chicken scratch of yours to."

Sensing an opening, not giving herself much of a chance to rethink it, Buffy decided to ask. And all the while the little warning voice in her head was shoutingwords like _bad, don't, fire._

She ignored it.

"Why were you so busy this weekend?" she hedged cautiously, keeping her voice light. Ultra-casual. Her eyes flicked back up to his. "Big plans?"

Spike looked back at her, unruffled and replied breezily, "Mmm, no." A small shake of his head. "Time just...got away from me, is all."

She hadn't been sure what would feel worse. If he told her the truth, or lied to her about it. It didn't really feel to Buffy like he'd done either. Like maybe he'd been purposefully vague. And that might have been worse than either of the other two.

She swallowed against the lump she hadn't even known was there in the back of her throat. "Yeah," was all she could manage, eyeing the blinking cursor on her computer screen. "I hate it when that happens."

 ** _-Monday, June 24th. 2:35pm-_**

"Jesus, Buffy," Spike leaned back in his chair, letting his head loll back and smack into the top of it. "Not _everything_ has to be a masterpiece. It isn't meant to be bloody Shakespeare."

"Actually," Buffy countered huffily, reaching forward and picking up the sad little Hamlet wannabe and shaking it at him. "It is. That's kind of my point."

Sighing, exasperated, he dropped his chin down so his gaze was level with hers again. He inhaled, looked like he was fighting for patience, then exhaled and said calmly, "What's your biggest issue with it?"

Buffy opened her mouth to answer immediately, then paused, thought better of it. Closed her mouth again. Then, "I have to pick one?"

Spike looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. "You have to pick one," he said. "And sell _me_ on it."

Buffy weighed the manuscript she still had a firm grip on. Turning it around, she flattened it in her left hand and flipped through the pages with her right. Just one? She could think of a hundred. It wasn't the concept that was bad, she'd finally decided early Sunday morning. It was the execution. The writing was bad. The characters were weak. The plot was a stretch. She could have said any number of things to explain her biggest issue with it. So why she chose to turn back to Spike and say simply, "My biggest issue with it is that it's garbage" she wasn't quite sure. It just felt right in the moment.

Not that her boss agreed.

"You call _that_ a pitch?" he asked, raising his scarred brow sardonically. He didn't seem amused now. "Christ, you've got a lot to learn."

"That's why I'm here," Buffy reminded him, dropping the manuscript back down to his desk. "What exactly am I supposed to be learning here, anyway? If you," she gestured toward him demonstratively, "as the editor, don't like the manuscript...it ends up in the slush pile. End of story."

"What you're _learning_ ," Spike said, a little like his last shred of patience might be wearing thin, "is how to take a position on a manuscript you feel strongly about and get others to agree with you. You," he gestured toward her the same way she just had him, "as the editor, don't get final say on whether or not to buy a book. Plenty of sodding hoops to go through, yeah?" Spike paused, considering her thoughtfully. Then he cocked his head to the side, lowered his voice and said, "Try again."

Buffy pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and bit down on it, sucking her cheeks in as she considered what he'd said, tried to decide what exactly she wanted to say in response. Finally, she began with "It's supposed to be a reimagining of Hamlet, right? But it's not even _vaguely_ recognizable as Hamlet. You'd never know if you didn't have the author's note in the beginning because basically the entire plot's been changed." She paused, fixing him with a look before she leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. " _And_ it's boring."

She watched, waited as Spike nodded, hollowing his cheeks. "Fine," he said, waving a hand dismissively toward it. "Toss it."

Buffy's eyes widened. _Well, that was easy._

"Really?" Buffy sat up straight, leaning forward and uncrossing her arms. "Because of what I said?"

Spike laughed at her. Eyes crinkling, gleaming out at her from beneath dark lashes. "No, not because of what you said, that was terrible." He sat forward in his chair and folded his hands on the top of his desk. He considered her for a moment before nodding once. "Your instincts were right, though."

He looked at her then. Really looked at her, with that genuine, bone melting intensity she'd seen the night he'd brought her home with him. His eyes softened, grew darker, and the corners of his lips curved just a little bit.

Her instincts were right.

"Well, that's something," Buffy said, feeling a flush in her cheeks under the scrutiny of his gaze.

Spike inhaled through his nose and murmured, "It's a start."

 ** _-Tuesday, June 25th. 9:45am-_**

Spike had meetings all day Tuesday. Meetings that she apparently wasn't needed for, which was fine by her after the whirlwind, roller coaster whiplashy ride he'd given her the day before. He hadn't told her what his meetings were, or where, but they were off site because he was gone, literally gone, all day.

Which left her with...not a whole lot to do, actually.

She was back at her own desk today. Elbow propped up on the black Techline, chin in her hand, she stared blankly at the screen of her computer. Fighting the urge to look up dancing cat videos, or something else equally as benign. She hadn't slept much the night before. Her brain had been on massive overload after her full day of Spike, and Faith hadn't been home to talk her down. She'd tried calling Dawn, but after her second attempt, had given up. What exactly had she planned on saying to her, anyway? _You know my boss? I slept with him. Oh, and know what else? He's married. And I sat across from him and had to stare at his pretty, pretty face all day while he tried to teach me things. Interning is fun!_

She'd toyed briefly, like, super, _super_ briefly, with the idea of calling Angel. She'd never ended up responding to those texts he'd sent her. But she'd talked herself out of it before it was too late this time, thank God for small favors, and had eventually forced herself to just lay down in bed and wish for sleep to come.

It never had. And so far today coffee just wasn't doing the trick.

Just as she was thinking that maybe she should mainline the caffeinated liquid instead of drinking it from a mug, Xander plopped down into Cordelia's desk and set a largish, wrapped Blueberry muffin down in front of her.

"So, how goes it, promotion girl?" he asked, picking off a piece of the top of his own muffin and dropping it into his mouth.

Buffy's response was to fold her hands on top of her desk, lay her head down and shut her eyes.

Xander reached over and rubbed her upper back lightly. "That good, huh?"

 ** _-Wednesday, June 26th. 11:16am-_**

"What about _Some Eyes May Open_?"

Buffy glanced up at Spike, nodding, finishing her sip of the diet soda in her hand and setting it down on the floor beside her chair. "That one I actually liked."

And she should have expected it.

Spike turned his eyes to hers, a lascivious little smirk starting to curl his lips as his brow arched and he said, "Did you now?"

She knew what that look was about. Had known this was coming ever since she picked up the slightly smutty romance manuscript and started reading through it on Friday evening. She'd known discussing it, here, with him, was going to be weird. Known it, and had resolved to _not_ let it be weird if she could help it. It was just another for-the-birds manuscript. Like all the others he'd had her read, its fate had already been decided. Cordelia had probably already sent off its rejection letter. It was what it was. A tool, something Spike was using to help teach her things about being an editor.

It wasn't going to get the best of her. And neither was he.

Or that damn smirk.

"What," she began dryly, crossing her arms. "You're gonna tell me my 'instincts' are off again?"

"No, no," he said quickly, eyes turned down, fingers drumming absently on the top of the papers. "I think plenty of readers would agree with you." His eyes flicked up to hers. "The phrase 'sex sells' isn't just for advertisin'."

Again, Buffy was ready. She'd prepped herself for this. She just smiled at him wanly, tilting her head to the side and narrowing her eyes. "That's not why I liked it."

"Mmhm," he murmured, turning back down to the manuscript and flicking his thumb along the edges of the pages, strumming the little multi-colored tabs Buffy'd stuck there like a guitar string. "That why you failed to make any edits whatsoever on any of the love scenes?" His thumb stopped strumming, the space between them going silent for his effect as his lashes fanned up. "Bit preoccupied?"

Mmm, nope. Still hadn't gotten to her. She grinned at him and tilted her head to the side, said breezily, "You're a pig, Spike."

He actually looked a little impressed that she wasn't reacting to him. Well, maybe equal parts impressed and disappointed. "Somethin' I'm very comfortable with, Buffy."

"You're wrong anyway," she told him, uncrossing her arms and waving her hand toward it. "I know for a _fact_ I made edits on those–"

But he already knew she had, because he didn't even acknowledge her protest as he launched into what Buffy was slowly starting to understand as his 'intro to editing' speech. "All in all, you had some fairly decent suggestions throughout. _But_ you missed a few opportunities to make the prose itself better. Here," he began thumbing through the manuscript in front of him, going until he'd reached a little more than halfway. Buffy recognized the hot pink sticky tab his thumb was resting over now. She watched as he grabbed a hold of it and flipped the top pages back, then he turned the entire thing around and pushed it back in front of her. "Read this again."

Buffy nodded and leaned forward. Not feeling like arguing, she started to scan the page quickly. Speed reading, a trick she'd picked up from her college roommate. She'd gotten close to halfway down the page when Spike shot his hand out, splaying it over the text and blocking her view.

"No, luv," he said, moving his hand back again as she glanced up at him. "Read it out loud."

She stared at him, blinked once. Twice. This? This was a thing? "Spike, I haven't read anything out loud since I was in high school lit. class."

 _And I'd really, really like to keep it that way_ , she thought, her mind whirling now as she thought about the text below her. The text he was asking her to read. Out loud. In front of him.

But Spike wasn't having it. "Then you're past due," he said simply, leaning back in his chair and bracing his elbows on the arm rests. "Go on. You have to hear the words, not just see them."

To make matters that much worse, that lascivious grin he'd had on his face earlier? The smug smirk, the fluttering lashes, the purring, rumbling innuendo? All gone. He looked completely sincere. Relaxed, casual. Expectant.

She looked at Spike, made a wrinkly-nosed face. Wondered if it would be easier to do what he was asking if he was being all work-inappropriate. But he wasn't. He was doing what he'd said he was going to do, trying to teach her. Make her better.

Sighing, Buffy turned her eyes back down to the page in front of just had to do it. Just do it, get it over with. Quick and painless.

And she so she started to read the text out loud, the words leaving her lips in a rush _."'But he doesn't move, doesn't press forward like my body's calling out for him to , he stays very still. Leaning over me, both hands on either side of my head, looking down at me. I feel it, the exquisite, excruciating pressure of having him there, but just barely, between my legs. Knowing the promise of what comes next. Needing it, craving this physical connection with him in a way I can't remember needing it bef—"_

She stopped reading abruptly, cheeks flushing bright red as she tore her eyes away from the page and immediately up to the ceiling, avoiding Spike's steady gaze as she did. She shook her head. "I feel ridiculous."

"Well, you don't look it," Spike assured her evenly. Still, no trace of sensuality or flirtatiousness in his voice. "Keep goin'."

Buffy looked back down again.

 _"_ _...And then he thrusts inside of me,"_ she paused to clear her throat, her entire body heating up. She could feel the blood flooding her cheeks, could still feel his eyes on her, watching her read. _"_ _All the way in, and the world starts to spin a little faster. I drop my hand from his cheek, gripping the curve of his shoulder, digging my nails into the skin there as I arch my back. When he begins to move, the pace is slow. Almost unbearably, but so sweet, so—"_

"…hoo-kay," she breathed, stopping again. She looked up once more and this time she managed to look Spike in the eye. "Can you stop being all Obi-Wan and just _tell me_ what the point of this is?"

Spike gazed at her from across the short distance, his eyes insanely blue, bright. She wished she could read what he was thinking, get inside his head the way he always seemed to get inside hers. Buffy took a shuddering inhale, sitting back a little further in her chair. The thick wooden desk between them suddenly felt like it just wasn't quite _enough._

Spike inhaled deeply, exhaled through his nose. "Bein' a good editor, a good _advocate_ for your author is about more'n fixin' comma splices. To be an effective editor you have to understand what the writers themselves sometimes can't."

Buffy arched a brow. "I said to _stop_ being all Obi-Wan…you have seen Star Wars, haven't you?"

"Words are _sensory_ ," he said, starting to explain himself. There was the hint of a smirk on his lips now. "Syntax, sentence structure, even vocabulary. You can't just write the words down, read over 'em in your head once or twice and be done with it." He shifted slightly, leaning his head down into his left hand. "There's a reason why stories used to be told orally."

"Because they didn't have access to paper." Buffy supplied, unhelpfully. "Or the internet."

"If it doesn't flow from the lips," Spike clarified pointedly, bringing the pointer finger of his right hand up to tap once against his bottom lip for emphasis, "it won't flow from the page. The words have a rhythm, they matter."

Buffy still wasn't buying it. "Even in a smutty romance novel?"

In response, he chuckled, nodding and sitting up straight again. "Especially in a smutty romance novel. Look, every author has their own style. Word choice, cadence. But even they themselves can lose sight of it, yeah? Spend enough time nose to nose with somethin' and you stop bein' able to see the forest for the trees." He reached out and tapped the page in front of her with his middle and pointer fingers. "Reading the words out loud can help you hear breaks in an author's cadence you might not have otherwise."

He was a genius. She knew that, had known that, from word go. From before she'd ever even imagined meeting him. Since meeting him, she'd seen him show her that genius. The shrewd business side, the logical side.

This, though. This was different. More pure, less cynical. The way he was talking to her and the words he was saying, Buffy could see it. That he wasn't as jaded or shark-like as he might want people to think. That he still loved this. _Doing_ this.

"Wow," Buffy said quietly, eyes wide, blinking at him. "That's almost profound."

Instantly, his expression shifted, making a face at her. "Just finish the bloody page."

"I'm serious," she told him, watching his eyes spark before she turned her attention down one last time and proceeded to read the final paragraph.

 _'"_ _And each time, each luxurious movement of his hips, he strikes a chord somewhere deep inside me. The little bundle of nerves that send rolling waves of pleasure jolting through me, making me bite down on my lip to keep from crying out each time. When I start to feel it, the tell-tale spasm of my inner muscles, the tightening in my stomach, I let out a loud, involuntary moan. And I come, biting down hard into my lip to stifle my cry of release as I throw my head back, closing my eyes."_

"There," Spike said, shifting forward and tilting his head towards hers, trying to catch her eyes. He looked almost excited, expectant. "You hear it now, don't you?"

And yeah. She actually did.

"This part here?" Buffy asked, pulling a black pen out of her blue and white vase, leaning forward to circle the spot on the page, keeping the tip pressed to the paper as she glanced back up. "It doesn't quite match the rest."

He nodded. "What would be better?"

Buffy thought about it for a moment, pressing her glossed lips down and rubbing them together. Then she hunched back down, crossed out the small section of text. She re-wrote the words she was thinking above it. Read it through in her head once, cleared her throat and read aloud, "' _And I come with a muffled cry, the tip of my right canine slicing through the soft flesh of my bottom lip as I throw my head back, eyes fluttering closed._ '"

Finished, feeling actually pretty pleased with herself, she smiled and glanced up to meet Spike's waiting gaze.

He was staring at her, his eyes dark, pupils dilated. His lips were slightly parted. Buffy watched as his Adam's apple bobbed once, like he was thinking about what he wanted to say. She watched his eyes scan her face, dropping down from the line of her hair, over her nose, and finally, down to her mouth.

Buffy sat completely still, unmoving. She didn't know what to say. Wasn't sure she _wanted_ to say anything. Like if she spoke a word or moved, or breathed, the moment would shatter. The moment she hadn't even realized was happening until she'd looked up and found herself smack in the middle of it. It had snuck up on her. She'd been guarded against the intimations. Been ready for his suggestiveness.

But this, she hadn't prepared for.

"Good," Spike finally breathed, swallowing again as he brought his eyes back to hers. "Very good."

F _rying pan or fire_ , Buffy thought dimly.

She guessed she'd chosen the fire.

 ** _-Thursday, June 27th.10:28am-_**

The next day, neither Buffy nor Spike had mentioned that weird little moment they'd had the day before. It had felt to her like an unwritten rule, some unspoken agreement. Sort of like when she was little and she used to pull the covers up over her head at night to hide herself from the monsters. If she couldn't see them, they couldn't see her. As an adult, it seemed to translate more to if she just didn't acknowledge the elephant in the room it couldn't trample her to death.

For his part, Spike seemed to be abiding by the same set of kindergarten principles.

Buffy was seated across from him, typing up the handwritten editorial proposal he'd handed her that morning. Apparently, there was a new book he was backing, one he thought Pratt should publish, and the document she was copying from was what he'd be taking into the editorial board meeting to pitch the manuscript to the other editors. Buffy had been a little surprised at first. She hadn't known he still had to do stuff like that.

" _This'll be good then,"_ he'd told her earlier that morning when she'd asked, laying the four sheets of yellow lined paper beside her laptop. _"_ _See the way the process really works, and all that."_ Then he'd fixed her with a raised eyebrow look. _"_ _See what a_ real _pitch looks like."_

She'd complained good naturedly about having to copy his handwriting, claiming it was difficult to read because all of his left handed "U"s looked like "V"s, but in reality Buffy had been glad for the reprieve. Having something to focus on and work on for him in silence was good. Quiet was good. Just, not talking was good. Every time he opened his mouth she ended up finding something else about him that she liked, and that was _not_ good.

She was so focused on her task, in fact, that when Spike broke the silence to ask her a question she actually jumped.

"Who's Angel?"

Buffy's eyes snapped to his face, and she frowned. There was no way she'd heard him right. "Excuse me?"

"Your phone, pet." He inclined his head toward the left side of her papers, to where she'd sat her cell phone down that morning. "Lightin' up like a sodding Christmas tree. Some bird named Angel?"

Some bird named...Buffy blinked a couple times, then glanced down toward her phone. Sure enough, there it was, floating there at the top of the brightly lit up screen for just anyone to see.

 **Angel. 6/27, 10:29am** _So, this is what I'm picturing. You in some ugly leather chair in a big corner office, disgustingly incredible view of the skyline. Close?_

Buffy's hand shot out, grabbing her phone off the desk. She swiped her thumbs across the screen, banishing the text for the moment. Then she darkened the screen again and set the phone back, face down this time.

"She a stripper?" Spike asked, his voice casually disinterested as he went back to his own work.

The man was impossible. "What?" she asked, shaking her head. She probably would have laughed if she wasn't trying so hard to think of what to say, or how to explain. Not that it mattered how she explained. Spike was just her boss, right? It shouldn't matter to him if she was texting her ex-boyfriend or not. Not that she was, cause actually, she wasn't. She'd never responded to his messages from Monday. And she was rambling in her head and not speaking out loud, so maybe she should just say something. She settled on "No".

Spike nodded, his eyes still down, red pen flicking expertly over the text in front of him. "That's disappointing. Who is she then?"

"Angel is a guy," Buffy explained, feeling silly for not just coming right out and saying it in the first place. "My ex."

This had the movement of his pen stilling. Just for a second, but long enough for Buffy to notice before he resumed working again. "High school, or-"

"College, actually," she supplied for him, and their eyes met briefly over the rim of her computer screen before they both looked away again.

A long moment of silence passed between them. Then, abruptly, Spike asked her. "What happened?"

Buffy's own fingers stilled over her keyboard as she stared at the last words she'd typed, the blinking cursor. This was a rabbit hole, discussing her exes with Spike. And not the fun kind that led to Wonderland. The kind that led down to tunnels, little mazes that got you all twisted up and turned around and left you confused and dirty. She sighed, glancing up at him. "That's a really long, really…not appropriate for work story."

He looked for a moment like he wanted to argue with her. Opened his mouth to say something, his eyes flashing a dark navy blue. But then he stopped, closed his mouth again. Exhaled and said, "You're right." He said the words quietly, nodding to show he understood. "Not my business."

He'd done it again. Just the same way he had the night they met. The moment she'd panicked, started to have second thoughts about staying there with him, he'd completely and utterly disarmed her with his sincerity. If he'd responded any other way, if he'd tried to coerce her or bully her into telling him more, she would have tuned him out and just gone back to work, the whole thing forgotten. Or ignored, maybe. How many elephants could there be in a room before you inevitably had to deal with one?

But he hadn't. Of _course_ he hadn't, because that would make him too easy to get a read on. Too easy not to like. No, he had to be all layered and interesting and unpredictable and before Buffy knew it, she was answering him. "He wasn't there when I needed him to be," she said quietly, turning her attention back to her work as she did. "Things got…tough, for me. And he just sort of bailed." She bit down lightly on the inside of her cheek, remembering what had happened when her mom had gotten sick. Still not taking her eyes off the computer screen. "Couldn't handle it, I guess."

"I'm sorry," was all he said.

She laughed then, but it was humorless. She was already thinking she shouldn't have said anything as she shook her head and asked, "About my breakup?" Because she had a hard time believing that.

"That it was under rough circumstances for you," he explained, and she heard the sounds of his pen scratching on paper picking up again. "But it sounds like the wanker got what was comin' to him if he was idiot enough to walk away."

"Walk away from what?" she asked him, finally tearing her eyes away from the glowing screen and back up to his.

He looked at her again then, and Buffy knew what. She knew _exactly_ what he was thinking, because it was written all over his face. He didn't even bother trying to hide it. It was just a flash, brief, but there. Unchecked longing.

It was gone as quickly as she'd managed to register it, watching as his expression shifted to impassive. "You about finished with that?" he asked her, gesturing toward her laptop. "Like a chance to give it a once over, make sure you didn't butcher any of the words."


	6. Chapter 6

**_-Wednesday, July 3rd. 12:19pm-_**

Buffy was distracted.

Then again, Buffy was always distracted lately. When she wasn't working with Spike, sitting in what she was rapidly beginning to think of as her spot in his office, in her chair, at her corner of his desk, she was thinking about him. Or, more accurately, she was trying her damndest _not_ to think about him.

Which really she figured was _still_ thinking about him. So maybe the point was a moot one.

She was trying not to think about him now. Trying not to think about the tingling little sparks that shot up her arm when his hand had accidentally grazed hers last Friday when he'd handed her his revisions to the editorial proposal she'd typed the day before, or about the story he'd told her yesterday afternoon that had made her laugh so hard she'd cried. Or how she'd caught him staring at her on Monday when he'd been in the glassed in conference room for the editorial meeting she'd been helping him prepare for.

Technically, she'd caught him staring at her twice. The first time he'd looked away immediately, but the second…she'd happened to glance up from her desk just as he was wrapping up, and he'd caught her eye, grinned and nodded. She'd smiled back and offered him a little thumbs up, to which he'd rolled his eyes good naturedly over the heads of the other people in the room. Then he'd winked at her.

It was innocent enough, she'd figured, that if someone else had noticed they might not have thought much of it. Hell, _she_ wouldn't have thought much of it herself if she didn't have a reason to.

And even that was debatable at this point. Buffy had been working one on one with Spike for over a week now and absolutely _nothing_ nefarious had happened. Not that she wanted anything nefarious to happen. She didn't. And that was due in part she figured to how insanely difficult he could be at times, how hard on her, the level of sheer perfection he did in fact demand from her and at times expecting her to know things she never could have. He was arrogant about his work and what he could teach her, though he had a right to be which made it worse.

But there was something in Buffy that was drawn to that arrogance, and that was a worse of a different kind.

So whether it was because of or in spite of that, she wasn't sure, but they'd managed to keep things professional. Neither of them had mentioned "that night", neither of them had been intentionally inappropriate with the other. Well, unless she counted Spike's sense of humor which was inappropriate in and of itself, but not so much in a _I want to have a torrid love affair with you_ sort of way so much as _I might be a editorially brilliant but I'm still a man_ kind of way. Lots of innuendo, lots of wicked little smirks and raised brows, but not a lot of anything else. So far, with the exception of that little dramatic read he'd made her give him from the slush pile romance, and the very tense moment that had followed and been subsequently shoved under the rug, nothing even remotely untoward had occurred between them at all. Sure, there was plenty of... _stuff_ between them. An unspoken little _something_ that was always there beneath the surface, the constant reminder of their history together, and Buffy didn't think she'd ever met someone who could go toe to toe with her in the stubborn category and _win_. But she was beginning to think her initial concerns about taking on the job, working so closely with him, had been largely unfounded.

At least where _his_ intentions were concerned.

She didn't want to be attracted to him. She really, really didn't want to enjoy his company. And she sure as hell didn't want to _like_ him.

Unfortunately for Buffy, he seemed bound and determined to make it as impossible as he could for her not to, whether he knew it or not. The more she worked with him, the more time she spent with him, the more drawn to him she became. Talk about an inconvenient truth. Al Gore should have called her up before he'd made his documentary.

Besides the fact that Spike was marriedand her boss and completely, totally, one hundred percent inaccessible to her, there were other inconvenient truths as well. Like the fact that he was a whopping fifteen years older than her, and that he spoke in double entendres like they were his second language, _and_ that he had awful taste in music. And the fact that she'd learned more from him in the past week and a half then she'd learned in the entire _semester_ of her last composition and editing course.

And that was reason number eighty-seven on a very long, and rapidly growing longer, list of why she was currently spending a good deal of her energy and her entire lunch hour trying not to think about Spike and the afternoon she had ahead of her, sitting across from him.

So she barely registered when Xander directed his attention to her and asked, "What about you, Buff?"

She didn't respond. Just focused down on her plate, the half-eaten turkey sandwich she'd been picking at absently since they'd sat down to eat.

"Buffy?" Cordelia pressed, leaning slightly forward and around until her eyes were locked with hers.

Buffy blinked, focusing in on the brunette beside her. "Hmm?"

"Where are you today?" Cordelia asked, sinking back down into her own chair, spearing some lettuce with her fork and lifting it to her lips. "You're a total space cadet."

"Sorry," she said, sitting up straight and pushing her plate away from her. She reached a hand up and feathered it through her hair and turned to her friends. "I guess I'm just a little distracted. What did you say?"

Xander swallowed his mouthful of sandwich and asked her again. "Pratt's 4th of July party. You going?"

She squinted her eyes at him, racking her brain for what she knew about the party he'd just mentioned. Had she even known about it? She was having trouble remembering, hadn't really thought much about anything except for work for the past week or so. Oh, no, that was right. She'd never heard of a companywide 4th of July party before, so she'd been a little confused when the memo had come through a couple weeks ago reminding people about it. "Oh, umm, I don't know," she told them honestly, folding her arms across her waist and shrugging. "I haven't even thought about it I guess."

"You've been working too hard," Cordelia chimed in, and Buffy could hear what she was really saying as she watched the other girl reach for her soda and take a long sip.

 _He's working you too hard._ She'd already mentioned it once to her already, over the last weekend. Cordelia had invited her out after work Friday for drinks and Buffy had declined, citing she had work she needed to finish up instead. Which probably wouldn't have been an issue if Cordelia hadn't called her again to ask Saturday night and she'd given the same response. Buffy gave her a look now, but Cordelia was carefully keeping her eyes down on her salad. 

Oblivious to the tenseness between the two girls, Xander just grinned. "All the more reason for you to get some R&R."

Buffy turned and smiled wryly back at him, shaking her head. "A 4th of July party doesn't exactly scream rest _or_ relaxation."

Cordelia sighed, shifting back in her chair and picking up her purse. "Well you can't _not_ go, Buffy, it's your first Pratt 4th of July."

"What exactly is the deal with the 4th of July around here?" she asked her as she pushed her own chair out, glad the momentary tension was broken. She picked her cell phone up off the table and her own purse off the back of her chair.

"Well, it _is_ Boston," Xander supplied, holding the door to the cafe open for the two girls as they filed out onto the sidewalk.

"And Mr. Pratt just loves it," Cordelia added as the three fell into step beside one another, making their steady way back toward work. "It's like his favorite holiday or something. Huge history buff, all about the founding of America or whatever." She waved her hand dismissively.

Buffy nodded, starting to understand. She remembered that, actually. Had read about it in her research of the company. When Pratt Publishing had first gotten off the ground most of what they were printing had been history text books. Specifically, American History.

"So what's the party like?" she asked now, crossing the lobby and heading toward the bank of elevators.

"Like the best backyard barbeque you've ever been to," Xander said, shrugging. "Except with top shelf liquor and pyrotechnics,"

Cordelia smacked him lightly on the arm and turned back to Buffy. "Fireworks, open bar, amazing food. Somebody always drinks too much and belly flops into the pool." She reached forward and pressed the _Up_ button. "Standard stuff."

Buffy laughed, watching him playfully rub at the spot on his arm the brunette had just hit as the elevator doors dinged open. "Sounds like fun."

"So," Xander drawled, drawing the word out as the three of them stepped inside. "You in?"

She honestly wasn't sure. On the one hand, Buffy didn't know if a party, specifically a work party, that was sure to involve alcohol and might possibly involve Spike was the best of ideas with her already tenuous grip on avoiding her draw to him. On the other hand, a party could be good. It could be exactly what she needed. A distraction, an excuse to have a night out that wasn't _exactly_ a night out. And it wasn't like she'd be at the party _alone_ with Spike, even if he did go. With both Xander and Cordelia there with her, with practically the entire company there, it'd still be work related enough to keep things between them all safe and business-like.

So, a party. Yes, good. Definitely.

She grinned at her friend and said, "Three cheers for the red, white and blue."

 ** _-Wednesday, July 3rd. 2:45pm-_**

Spike was working on a proposal for the publishing board, and Buffy was sending out e-mails to the sales department. The book he wanted to buy, Buffy had found out last Friday, was the crime manuscript he'd given her a copy of to work with. Of course, he'd decided weeks before giving it to her that he was going to back it, but he'd wanted to see what her thoughts would have been had she been the editor on it the first time around. His response, as per usual. Good instincts, but too timid in her suggestions for the prose.

He'd taken a little time earlier that morning explaining to Buffy why he couldn't just recycle the one they'd worked up for the editorial board, briefly clarifying for her how the editorial board was the easy one to get through. This proposal had to be a lot more detailed, and it wasn't just about pitching the manuscript itself, but he also had to include information about projected sales and profitability of the book. He had to have the proposal, the projected sales report and something called a Pro forma that Buffy vaguely understood as being a letter of formality explaining the aforementioned items all prepared and distributed to the members of the pub board before the meeting, and the meeting was coming up fast.

It seemed like an awful lot of hoops to Buffy.

 _"_ _My fellow editors don't much like to challenge me,"_ he'd explained to her when she'd told him just that, only a hint of smugness in his voice. _"_ _But the rest of these wankers aren't so easy."_

Buffy'd found out that the rest of the "wankers" he was referring to included people from sales, people from marketing, the vice president of the company and his father, Henry.

Spike hardly ever talked about his dad. Or at least, he hardly ever talked about him in front of her. She was curious, had been curious since the very first time he'd ever mentioned him to her over their third round of drinks. When he'd confessed to her that his father was an American. She'd only become more curious once she'd discovered that his American father was in fact henry Pratt. And since he'd been the one to bring him up now, Buffy didn't see the harm in digging a little further.

"So," she said, pressing send on the e-mail she'd just finished and glancing up at him. "Your dad's a big fan of the 4th of July, huh?"

Spike chuckled dryly, glanced up at her and nodded distractedly before looking back down. His pen never stopped moving. "Heard about the annual shindig, have you? 'S the damn man's favorite holiday. Foundin' of the greatest _bloody_ country on Earth and all that rot," he said. "A red blooded American if there ever was one."

It was funny. Spike didn't sound bitter when he spoke about his father, even if the words he was using didn't immediately inspire warm, fuzzy feelings either. There was grudging respect in his voice, but there was affection, too. It had Buffy a little confused. She guessed she'd just assumed that since he never talked about him there must have been some bad blood between the two.

She reached up and lowered the top of her computer screen, eyeing him with a raised brow over it. "I'm guessing you're not as big a fan."

"How'd you guess?" he asked her wryly, setting his pen down, linking his fingers together and stretching his arms out in front of him.

Buffy gave him a mock sympathetic look, wrinkling her nose up. "Still feeling a little bitter over that whole revolution thing?"

Spike tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes as he told her, "That's enough cheek from you."

She laughed at him, shifting back from her computer and crossing her legs.

"Then what's your deal?" she asked lightly, casually. Trying not to betray how much information she was actually digging for. "You've lived here for over ten years, there must be _something_ about the good old U.S. of A you like."

He smirked appreciatively at her at that.

"Plenty of things about this country I like, pet," he said, eyeing her meaningfully, letting the words hang poignantly in the air between them before he glanced away. "This holiday's just not one of 'em. Might've adopted America but I'm still English, born and bred."

This of course Buffy already knew, but she was knee deep in the trench now. Invested in finding out more about the man sitting in front of her, his history, his family. Figured it couldn't hurt anything to keep on digging. She turned her attention back to her keyboard, not actually typing anything but trying to look busy as she asked, "Your mom is English then?"

Spike nodded, shaking out his left hand again before picking up his pen and resuming his work. "That she was."

That had Buffy pausing her fake ministrations, her eyes moving back to Spike. "Was?"

A beat passed before he answered her.

"Uh, yeah," he looked at her and nodded, then immediately right back down to his work. "Mum died back home just before I decided to pack up and move myself here. Be with family and all that."

Buffy felt sick to her stomach, wishing she hadn't pressed him, inwardly starting to panic just the tiniest bit. This was dangerous territory too, she knew that. If discussing her ex-boyfriends with him had been a rabbit hole then this...this was a bottomless pit.

And yet she couldn't keep herself from asking. "Your parents weren't together?"

He laughed at that. "Are anybody's anymore?"

Buffy had to concede that was a good point. She turned her eyes down to her blank computer screen, thinking about her own parents, their failed marriage. How she hadn't seen her father in almost three years. How he hadn't even come home, had made one cursory phone call to apologize, to tell them that he loved her and her sister. That he'd send them whatever money they needed but that he just couldn't swing the trip back to California. Not when her mom got sick.

Not even for the funeral.

Buffy sat in silence for a moment, grateful now that Spike was working so diligently. That he wasn't looking at her. She could feel her eyes starting to burn as she thought about her own mother. It was something she tried to avoid. Tried to keep busy, tried not to deal with. Buffy was good at avoidance. Could avoid and dodge and deny with the best of them. And that's what she'd been doing when she'd taken this internship. Yes, she knew it was what her mom would have wanted for her, that she would be proud if she knew, and that had played a part in it, too.

But she'd been running. She'd been running from California, from the people there, from the people who _weren't_ there anymore.

Blinking quickly to clear her slightly bleary vision, she cleared her throat. Knew she had to say something, just didn't know what. So she settled on the one thing people had said to her that hadn't made her want to claw their eyes out.

"I'm really sorry about your mom, Spike. I…" _Understand. Know how you feel. Sometimes miss my mom so much I feel like I can't breathe._ "That must have been awful."

"It was at first," he told her, filling up the page in front of him, re-reading it in his head quickly before setting it aside, pulling a clean paper off the stack beside him. He poised his pen to resume writing, paused, met her gaze again. "But it's gotten easier. More bearable." He must have seen something in her eyes then, because she watched his own expression soften. He set his pen down. "Not somethin' I think you ever get used to, mind you. Not somethin' you ever…get over." He sighed. "But it stops bein' quite so hard after a bit."

Buffy just stared back at him, wondering if he'd gotten inside her head again. If he had any idea how much she'd needed him to say that, or some variation of that. Wondered if he even knew about her mom, if that was something they would have told him, if they would have run a background check on her before hiring her or something.

"How long did it take for you?" she asked him hesitantly, not knowing how much she was giving away in doing so. She tapped her fingernail against the space bar on her keyboard absently, glanced down, then right back up. "For it to stop being so hard, I mean."

If Spike understood or knew or saw it on her face, why it was she was asking, he must not have felt the need to press her about it. He just sighed, shifted his eyes over toward the clock on his book shelf and thought about it for a minute before answering, "Couple'a years, maybe. And it did help, bein' here." He looked toward her and raised his eyebrows just slightly. "Havin' people to talk to, bein' with family."

She thought for a moment that he might have been inviting her to talk about it, whatever it was he was seeing in her expression. But she wasn't ready to cross that bridge. Wasn't ready to talk to anyone about it, and definitely not to him.

So she forced a wry smile onto her face, tilting her head to the side. "Even your 'sodding yank' of a dad?" she asked him, lightening the mood instantly with her very, _very_ poor attempt at an impression of him.

Spike's eyes widened. "Oh, bloody hell, that's adorable." He leaned toward her. "Quick, say 'don't get your knickers twisted'."

Buffy laughed at him and leaned back in her chair, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling, glad the heavy mood was broken. Bringing things back to the one of the original reasons she'd asked about the upcoming holiday in the first place, she said, "So, I'll assume from your general dislike of this holiday that I _won't_ be seeing you at the big party tomorrow night."

That had him shifting back in his own chair, eyeing her, looking like the thought hadn't occurred to him before now. "You're goin'?"

"I'm going," Buffy said, nodding. Then she paused, thinking it over. "Or, more accurately, I'm being taken." She shrugged, saying, "Xander said it couldn't be missed, so I'm playing party girl."

She'd said something wrong. She knew it immediately, in the way Spike looked away from her, the way his jaw clenched tight.

"I see," he said stiffly. A beat passed, and he hollowed his cheeks before nodding. "Well, the boy's not wrong. S'pose it is always quite the spectacle."

Oh. _Oh_ , had he been expecting her to work tomorrow? Maybe she should have asked about the party instead of just telling him she'd planned on going?

"It's okay if I go, right?" she asked now, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward slightly. "I mean, if there's work I need to do that's fine. I just figured, since I have the day off-"

"I'm your boss, Buffy, not your boyfriend," he said sharply, resuming his work without a second glance at her. "Don't have a say in what you do in your free time, yeah?"

Buffy sat back, frowning, blinking at him and trying to figure what exactly had just happened there.

And they spent the rest of the day working in silence.

 ** _-July 4th, 7:15pm-_**

Buffy had spent her day off in a state of pajama wearing, reality TV watching, doing absolutely _nothing_ bliss. Faith had made them breakfast and the two spent the morning lounging around the living room. When Faith left the house for her afternoon dog walking duties, she'd called Dawn and talked to her for almost an hour, which was great since she'd felt like she'd barely had time to exchange a text with her sister lately. It turned out having a day off was exactly what she'd needed to get her head on straight. She hadn't thought about her workload, hadn't thought about the mess that would be waiting for her when she stepped back in the office Friday and she hadn't even thought about Spike.

Well, not much anyway.

A few hours before Xander was supposed to be by to pick her up for the party, she'd peeled herself off the sofa and forced herself into the shower. When it had come time to pick something to wear she'd been stumped, though, she'd been unsure of what exactly this type of party's dress code was, or if it had one at all. Cordelia had mentioned a pool, so was it a pool thing? Should she wear a bathing suit and a sarong, or her favorite white denim shorts and a festive t-shirt?

Rather than guess and guess wrong, Buffy'd opted to phone a friend.

 _"_ _White jean shorts?"_ Cordelia had sounded horrified. _"_ _Buffy, this isn't California. No, it's cocktail attire._ " She'd said that last part like it should have been obvious, then sighed. _"_ _Do you need to borrow something?"_

It had seemed absolutely ridiculous to her at the time, that she'd need a cocktail dress for what she'd figured would be essentially a glorified backyard barbeque. Now though, she understood. Sure, they had massive homes in Los Angeles. Decorative mansions and modern, new-agey houses and all other types of opulent homes, but this was different.

The Pratt house was a large, two-story colonial home located in Cambridge. Looming and stately from the outside, set back from the street and lined on either side by thick oak trees, the inside of the house was a strange and almost comforting mix of old and new. There was a wide entryway with a beautiful wooden staircase and an old looking chandelier. The home had a large lushly decorated parlor, a dining room and a library that felt like it had looked exactly the way it did now back when the home was first built. A framed, tattered looking Betsy Ross flag sat above the mantle in the parlor, and Buffy noted the hand carved wooden clock there, too. It was an exact match to the one in Spike's office. The wooden floors throughout the home gleamed with fresh polish, but they also creaked beneath her feet, weathered and artfully worn. Parts of the home felt like she'd just stepped into a time warp, very circa 1776, while other bits and pieces of it had been thoroughly retrofitted for modern living on the inside. Some new, some old, and everything about it was elegant. So as she and Xander made their way down a long hallway and on through the massive kitchen and the large open French doors that led out onto the patio, she felt like understood the need for a little formality.

And Spike had been right, too, when he'd said the party was always a spectacle. Because what Buffy was looking at now was far, far from any backyard barbeque she'd ever been to.

The yard behind the house was large, which wasn't a surprise. Xander explained in Buffy's ear that a few years back Henry had bought the lot behind his and levelled the house to expand it. The flagstone patio stretched a good twenty feet out in front of her before curving into the side of the swimming pool, there were tables and chairs with large red, white and blue umbrellas dotting the area, white twinkle lights artfully strung up between them. There were men and women in stiff white shirts offering trays to people as they sat down. On the opposite side of the pool, there was a live band playing, the patio in front of them having been converted to a makeshift dance floor, and there was a bar set up a little to their left. Down a ways further still, over a slope in the grass back beyond where the band was playing, she thought she spotted where they were probably keeping the fireworks, too.

Buffy felt distinctly like she might have stepped out into some New England country club rather than someone's backyard.

There were already plenty of people milling around, some of whom Buffy recognized and some she didn't. Pratt wasn't an overly large company, but it was big enough she knew there'd be people she'd probably never have an occasion to run into. And some she hoped specifically not to, she noted, taking in Harmony and her darker blonde friend as they sashayed around the pool and over to the bar.

"When did Cordelia say she'd be here?" Buffy asked, eyes scanning the crowd of people near the band to see if she could spot the brunette woman anywhere.

"Uh, around 7:30?" Xander reached his left arm out in front of him to glance at his watch. "Which would be approximately now." He turned to Buffy, hand flying to the knot at his throat. "Is my tie on straight?"

Buffy smiled at him, reached her own hand up to bat his away and adjusted the knot that he'd somehow managed to loosen. This thing he had for Cordelia, which had taken Buffy all of about oh, two days to notice, was equal parts absolutely adorable and mind-blowingly irritating. Irritating because he, for whatever reason, refused to tell the other woman how he felt. Adorable because, well, Xander. "What am I," she teased him affectionately, tightening the knot and smoothing his tie flat with her hand. "Your wingman?"

"Wing _woman_ ," he corrected, grinning at her. Then he paused, made a face. "You mind?"

She laughed lightly, smoothed his tie one more time and dropped her hand down to her side. "No, Xander, I don't mind." Because, really, she didn't. "But I still think-"

"I _know_ ," he groaned, cutting her off before she could say it for the hundredth time and looking at her miserably. "I _know_ I should tell her. And I will. Tonight. Just, you know, maybe after a drink." He swallowed and looked toward the bar, reached a nervous hand up and loosened the tie Buffy had just fixed. "Or five."

"Because a drunken declaration of love is everything a girl dreams of," Buffy told him sarcastically, her eyes wide, lashes fluttering as she looked at him.

Xander fixed her with a hard look, said, "Aren't wingwomen supposed to be supportive?"

Buffy laughed at him again and rolled her eyes, turning herself out to face the bar and the band. She thought about it for a minute. Glanced around the party, at all the people, both the ones she knew and the ones she didn't. She knew she was looking for him. Looking to see if she could catch a glimpse of white blonde hair or steady blue eyes locking with hers from across the party. Which was stupid, she knew. For more than one reason.

So why couldn't she keep herself from looking?

 _Because she was a glutton for punishment._

"Well," she said, sighing and turning back to her friend. "If you really think you need to drown yourself in liquid courage can you get me a glass of pinot while you're at it?"

Xander clapped his hands, rubbed them together and nodded. "Your wish is my command." And then he was off, moving around the edge of the pool and over to the bar, the line looking like it might have doubled since she'd been looking at it a moment ago. She scanned the growing throng of people once more for Cordelia, then again, once more for Spike. Hating herself a little bit for it as she did.

He wasn't coming. She knew he wasn't, he'd told her as much the day before. Even if he hadn't, Cordelia'd said as much when she'd been on the phone with her that afternoon. That he didn't come to these things. She didn't know why, she'd said, but Buffy figured she had a pretty good idea.

Still, she'd wanted him to be here. Sure, she'd deny it if anyone ever asked. Deny that he'd factored into any of her decisions about what to wear to the party. She'd denied it so often to herself tonight that she was almost starting to believe it. Because it was wrong, and she knew it.

Because it was impossible, and she knew that even better.

So it was good that he wasn't here, maybe. No, definitely. Good. She could just relax, have fun, spend some time with her coworkers who'd become a lot more than that in such a short amount of time and just not think about him. Not think about-

"Well, well," his voice was low and directly behind her, sounded like it was only inches away from her left ear. "Don't you look festive."

 _Spike._

Buffy sucked in a breath against the little butterfly wings suddenly whipping up in her stomach, grip on her red clutch tightening just slightly. She turned slowly around to face him just in time to see his eyes finish their path up from the hem of her blue cocktail dress to the strap around the curve of her neck, lingering there just a little longer than necessary before flicking up to her eyes. The left side of his mouth quirked up.

She was surprised to see him there at all, but she was also surprised to see him there looking so cool and relaxed. Standing in front of her looking completely at ease, dressed more casually than Buffy had seen him since their first night together. Faded jeans, white v-neck and a navy blue blazer over that.

"You, too," she said lightly, half-teasing as she let her eyes drift back up to his face. "All you're missing is the red."

"No," Spike corrected her, a wicked little glint in his eyes as he raised his right hand so she could see the glass of wine he was holding. He kept his left hand casually stuffed into the pocket of his blazer. "Got that bit covered, too."

Buffy eyed the crimson liquid and chuckled, nodding her head. She looked back toward him, shifting from one foot to the other, feeling a little, surprisingly, awkward with him. She wasn't sure why. Maybe because the only time she'd seen him since the infamous "nothing personal" night had been within the confines of her job? At work, in the office, during normal business hours. This felt very different, even though it was essentially a work party. With the band playing and the people buzzing and the festive, twinkling lights...it all felt very far removed from work. Couple all that with the fact that she legitimately had resigned herself to thinking she wouldn't be seeing him here tonight.

Buffy was thrown.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him, brow furrowed. "I thought you hated these things."

"Oh, I do," he said breezily, lifting his wine to his lips as he stepped forward, moving so he was standing beside her and facing the rest of the party.

She turned, too, but didn't take her eyes off his profile. She frowned, still a little confused. "Then why—"

"If you honestly have to ask," he told her, his eyes focused straight ahead, his voice so low she almost couldn't hear him now over the strains of the music. "You aren't as smart as I've given you credit for."

Buffy's lashes fluttered as she stared up at him, his words making her stomach do a little flippy thing. Not the slight wave of tingling butterflies like before, but something more twisty. She wasn't sure how to respond to that. What to say. She wasn't even sure she knew exactly what he _meant_ , but it didn't matter, because he didn't give her any time to let his words sink in.

Turning back around, angling his body toward hers, he asked, "Where's your date, then?"

She shook her head, stepping back from him. "My _date_?"

"Speak of the devil," Spike murmured under his breath. Then, angling his body away from Buffy's and toward the brunette man that was approaching them. "Harris."

Buffy frowned deeply, looking back and forth between the two men. Spike had stood up noticeably straighter, his chin tilted back. It somehow managed to make him look taller even though Buffy knew the other man had at least an inch on him, if not more.

Spike thought Xander was her date?

Looking just a little rattled, Xander returned Spike's casual greeting with a nod of his head and a respectful, "Mr. Pratt." Then he turned to Buffy, extended his right hand toward her, holding tightly to a very full looking glass of white wine. "I wasn't sure if you wanted the Noir or Grigio variety, so—"

"This is perfect," she told him quickly as she took the proffered glass. Her head was still spinning, trying to make sense of what Spike had just said to her. Confused, cheeks flushing, irritated. She tamped it all down to smile warmly at Xander. "Thanks."

Spike's eyes flashed. If she hadn't just turned back to look at him, hadn't been staring at him in that split second that it happened, she would have missed it. But she had been, so she didn't. "Well, isn't that sweet," he drawled, smiling derisively down at her and not sounding like he actually thought anything was sweet at all. And even though his next words indicated he was addressing both of them, his eyes were glued to Buffy's. "You two kiddies have fun tonight. If you'll excuse me."

He turned and left then, striding back toward the French doors that led toward the kitchen. Buffy stared after him, watching him go with a deep frown set on her lips. Confused, staring toward the doors even after Spike had finally disappeared inside the house.

"Well," Xander began slowly from his position behind her. "That was weird."

"What?" Buffy asked, whirling back around to face him, eyes wide. Panicked. Wondering if Xander had overheard anything, wondering if he'd know what it was he'd actually overheard if he _had_. "Weird? Why weird?"

But if her friend noticed her erratic behavior, he didn't mention it. Just looked at her and shrugged, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips and saying, "I didn't know he even knew my name."

Buffy lifted her wine to her lips and took a large sip.

 **-July 4th, 9:27pm-**

Cordelia never showed up.

After about an hour of waiting around for her, Buffy had finally pulled her phone out and sent her a text. The response had come back less than five minutes later.

 **Cordelia Chase. 7/4, 8:32pm** _Bad sushi for dinner. Won't make it. Sorry. :( NEVER go to Wok and Roll!_

Making a sympathetic face, Buffy had handed her phone over to Xander so he could read the message for himself. He'd been predictably disappointed. Well, a little bit disappointed and a little bit relieved, if the expression on his face had been any indication. She knew he'd been nervous and sure, the annual company 4th of July party with an open bar? Probably _not_ the best time or place to confess your unrequited love.

So the pair had decided just to have some fun together. They listened to the band play, ate, talked. They did a lot of laughing, and even some dancing once Buffy'd gotten through her second glass of wine and had loosened up from her weird encounter with Spike earlier in the evening.

She was just finishing her third glass now, setting it down on the table that she and Xander had been sharing a plate of hor d'oeuvres at before he'd gotten up suddenly and walked away. Buffy had noticed that he'd had his phone in his hand, so she'd sort of figured he'd probably gone off to make a bad decision. But since he hadn't come right out and told her that, and she wasn't exactly in the clearest of head spaces to tell him not do whatever it was he'd been going to do, she hadn't asked. She wasn't drunk by any means, just relaxed. Buzzing. Her head felt comfortably light and her tongue felt loose and the breeze blowing was warm. She tilted her head back against the top of her chair and looked up at the stars. Fireworks were set to go off around 10:00, and she knew she probably should move around the pool to the other side of the patio if she wanted a chance at getting a decent seat to watch them from.

But she was so relaxed. And she felt good. And moving didn't sound like the best idea she'd ever had. So Buffy inhaled deeply instead, the scent of chlorine and grilled meat and that faintly gun powdery scent that firecrackers give off lingering in the air, and she shut her eyes.

It was the sound of wrought iron scraping stone that had her eyes fluttering open again. Thinking it was Xander, she sighed. "I hope you weren't just doing something you'll regret in the morning," she said, sitting up again and turning toward her right.

Spike was gazing evenly at her, having taken up the seat beside her. A slow smirk curved his lips when he registered her surprise at seeing him there. "Odd," he murmured, twisting his glass in circles on the tabletop absently. "And here I thought regret in the morning was your MO, pet." He lifted the drink and took a sip, eyes dark.

Buffy could smell it from where she was sitting, the liquor in his glass. Dark amber in color, it was straight, no ice, not the way she'd seen him drink it at the bar. The glass was maybe a little less than a quarter full now.

She frowned at him, deciding to ignore the low blow because she wasn't one hundred percent certain he was entirely in control of what he was saying to her. Glancing once more at the glass, then up to his face, she asked, "Are you drunk?"

He answered her question with another question. "Where'd the boy get off to, then?"

Buffy narrowed her eyes, sat back in her seat so she was shifted slightly away from him. "You mean _Xander_?" she asked pointedly, not liking the way he was talking about him.

"Well?" Spike pressed, unfazed. Took another drink.

She didn't like this, whatever side of him _this_ was.

"I don't know," she said honestly, tearing her gaze away from his to glance around the party. She squinted, scanning the crowds, but didn't see him anywhere. "Back to the bar, maybe?"

Spike chuckled darkly, nodding as he turned his eyes down to the glass in front of him. He twisted it in a circle again. "Surprised he'd leave your side," he said sardonically. "Been all but glued to your bloody hip since you got here."

Buffy turned back around then, gaped at him. He'd been _watching_ them?

Clenching her jaw. It was taking more self-control than she would have liked to remain seated, to remain cordial. Part of her wanted to reach across the table and smack the glass out of his hand. Another part of her wanted to reach across the table and smack him. He had no right, _none_ , to be doing this. To be watching her. To be sitting here now. To be talking to her like this.

To be jealous.

If she didn't have a right to be, then neither did he.

"Well, we did _come_ together," Buffy reminded him tersely, eyes narrowed.

"How romantic," Spike drawled, lifted the glass to his lips and downed the rest of the liquid in one swallow, setting it back down with more force than necessary. "Thought that only happened in those dirty books you like so much."

And the fragile hold Buffy'd had on her control snapped.

She braced her hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet in a huff, her own iron chair scraping over the flagstone as she did. Cheeks hot, chest tight, feeling a little sick to her stomach, she glared at him. "What is your _problem_?"

His response was immediate, and severe.

"You are, you _stupid_ girl," he hissed at her, his eyes blazing, flashing the way she'd watched them do earlier that night. Spike placed his own palms flat on the table and shoved his chair backward. "You are my sodding problem."

Buffy reeled back as though he'd slapped her, her mouth dropping open. Not knowing what to say. What do you even _say_ to that?

Spike didn't seem to have anything else to say either.

They just stood there for a moment, staring at each other, chests heaving, and somewhere in the back of her mind Buffy realized how lucky they were that the rest of the party guests had already shifted to the other end of the backyard for the fireworks display. They were essentially alone where they stood now, no one near enough to overhear, to see the looks on both their faces as they glared at one another. Which was good.

Because this? This was very, _very_ personal.

She watched as the expression on Spike's face started to soften, when he seemed to realize what he'd said. His eyes grew warmer, the severity of his frown lessened and he looked like he was about to say something. And just when he stepped closer to her, Buffy snatched her purse up off the table and turned, making a bee-line for the house.

 ** _-July 4th, 9:52pm-_**

He caught up to her in the empty hallway.

Calling out her name, reaching out and grabbing a hold of her upper arm, he spun her fiercely back around to face him.

"Let go of me," she snapped, wrenching her arm out of his grasp, ignoring the way her skin tingled and sparked where his hand had touched it.

Spike pulled his hand back immediately, holding them both up in front of him, palms out toward her in a gesture of surrender. His voice low, eyes soft now as they searched hers and he said, "I'm sorry, luv."

"Don't," she warned him, turning her back on him again and continuing down the hall toward the darkened entryway, not sure if she was telling him not to apologize or if she was telling him not to call her luv. She wasn't even sure where she was going, or how she was going to get there. Xander had driven her here and he was MIA so she'd have to call a cab, or-

Spike sighed, and she could hear his shoes creaking on the wood after her. "Buffy, we need to talk."

"We have nothing to talk about," she told him, not bothering to look back over her should or stop or even slow down.

Behind her, Spike made a low growling sound in the back of his throat. "That's not true and you sodding well know it."

She did. She did know it. They had more to talk about than either of them had a right to. All those elephants in the room with them, all the ones she'd been ignoring seemed to surround her all at once. Trumpeting, stamping their feet. Demanding to be noticed.

So she gave in.

Buffy skidded to a stop, her heels scraping over the freshly polished floor as she whirled back around to face Spike. Caught off guard, he skidded to a stop, too, to keep himself from running into her.

"Okay, fine," she threw her hands out, "You wanna talk? Let's talk." She began to approach him, advancing slowly, ticking each item off on her hand as she mentioned it. "Let's talk about how you went from saying you needed to distance yourself from me, to hiring me as your own personal intern. Let's talk about all the innuendos and the barely there touches and those _looks_ you give me." Like the one he was giving her now. "Let's talk about the little pissing contest you had with _Xander_ outside." Buffy stopped, sucked in a deep breath and lowered her voice. "Let's talk about how you're here, standing in your dad's house fighting with me when you should be at home with your _wife_."

She watched as the barest hint of a smirk tickled Spike's lips. "Sounds to me like we have plenty to talk about."

Buffy scoffed at him, shook her head. "Stop it," she warned him. "No more games."

Instantly, the smirk fell. His eyes grew somber. And he stepped a little closer to her, lowering his voice in turn. "This is hardly a game to me, luv."

Then why did it feel so much like one?

She looked away from him, sucking in her cheeks and nodding slowly. She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, looking back up. She had questions, and wanted answers, and it was probably best to deal with those questions one at a time. So she started with the one she couldn't stop asking herself.

"Why are you here, Spike?" she asked him point blank, suddenly feeling and sounding so tired.

He opened his mouth to respond automatically, not missing a beat. Then looked like he was reconsidering. After a moment he sighed, shoving his hands deep down into his jacket pockets and admitted, "You."

Buffy uncrossed her arms.

Far from the answer she'd been expecting, she frowned, shaking her head. _You._ Her? God, what did that even _mean_? She looked at Spike who was looking back at her with an unreadable expression, trying to figure out how he'd found a way to turn this around on her. She was his problem, and he was here because of her. So, what, it was her fault he was here? Her fault he was acting like a crazy person?

"I didn't ask you to come," she told him angrily.

Spike growled impatiently, glanced back over his shoulder toward the kitchen, the doors to the patio, then reached forward and grabbed a hold of Buffy's wrist. It happened so quickly that she didn't even protest as he stepped around her and dragged her with him several feet down the hall, reaching for a door on the left side. Opening it quickly, he ushered them both inside.

A bathroom, Buffy realized as Spike flicked on the light and she stood on the other side of the door, her back to the wood. His arm brushed against her as he reached around her hip to twist the lock in place.

Outside, Buffy heard the first tell-tale booms and cracks of the fireworks show. Muffled and distant as Spike stepped into her personal space, looking down at her through raging, stormy blue.

"You wanna know why I'm here?" he asked her heatedly, raising his brows high as he waited for her to answer him. But she couldn't seem to find the words she wanted, couldn't remember how to form them when he was looking at her the way he was now. "I'm _here_ because you're all I bloody think about, alright?" His eyes searched hers wildly, desperately. Pinning her to the spot with his words as surely as if his hands had been on her shoulders. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Buffy found herself frozen, asking herself the same question. Is that? _Is_ that what she'd wanted to hear?

Her first instinct was to shout no. To scream it in his face, maybe slap him once for good measure and get the hell out of Dodge. That no, _of course not_ , she didn't want to hear that she was all he thought about when he should be thinking about a million other things, and one specific other woman. Not when he was her boss and she was his employee and the only reason he was thinking about her at all was because of one night they'd shared before either of them knew who the other was.

But her first instinct was quickly silenced by her second. The little voice in the back of her head that was getting louder by the minute, louder as Buffy stared at Spike and struggled. Struggled with what she knew was right, what was wrong. Why the black and white, wrong and right lines she'd set up in her head felt blurry to her now with him this close, smelling like oaky alcohol and aftershave. She struggled with the question—" _Is that what you wanted to hear_?"-while her eyes scanned his. She struggled with it while trying desperately to read the expression on his face. And all the while the little voice was whispering in her ear, answering it for her. Saying yes, _exactly_. Yes, _of course_.

Yes _, please._

"No."

Spike shook his head once and said, "Liar."

And then he kissed her.

Lunging forward, cupping her face firmly in both of his hands, he claimed her lips with his. Stifling her cry of surprise, his mouth took hers so fiercely that his teeth scraped her bottom lip, her head fell back and bumped against the door making it shudder in the jamb.

He tasted even better than he smelled. Better than she remembered. Warm and cold and minty and sweet and he used his tongue to force Buffy to open her mouth for him, groaning against her in equal parts relief and desire when she did.

For a moment, just one, Buffy melted into him. His touch, his taste. She sighed into his mouth, sagged back against the door and let him kiss her. But then he pushed forward, pressing the entire length of his body against hers, and her hands flew to his chest and shoved.

"No," she said again, managing a little more conviction this time even as she gasped for air. She watched Spike stumble back and catch himself against the edge of the sink, looking dazed. Eyes dark with lust.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, reaching her hand up to press against her lips.

He seemed to come back to himself a little then. Blinking, standing up straight and gesticulating wildly in her direction. "I don't know," he half-shouted at her, obviously still trying to keep his voice down. He looked away from her, shook his head. "I have no _fucking_ idea what I'm doing." A pause, and then he murmured, "I shouldn't have come here."

He was talking to himself and not to her, but that didn't stop Buffy from responding.

"No, you shouldn't have. You just celebrated your wedding anniversary, Spike!"

His eyes snapped back to hers, brow furrowed. "What are you talkin' about?"

And she figured it was the fact that he was actually pretending not to know that sent her over the edge again.

"What I'm _talking_ about," she said angrily, teeth clenched tight as she gestured vaguely in the direction of wherever the restaurant was in relation to the house. "Is the anniversary dinner you spent with your wife at Chophouse two weeks ago."

"Chophouse…" he trailed off, squinting his eyes at her. He shook his head. She read confusion on his face. Then, realization. Then, anger. "How did you know about—"

"Your waitress that night," she told him angrily, raising her brows high when his expression turned surprised. "She's my roommate. Told me all about your dinner and your champagne and your obviously beautiful wife and—"

The sound of Spike exhaling a short burst of air out of his nose, scoffing, was enough to stop her mid-sentence. She watched, lips still forming her next word, as he shook his head and turned his back on her. "Christ," he muttered, planting his hands on his hips. He leaned his neck to the side as though to stretch it, looked up to the ceiling. "That night, at Chophouse? I wasn't celebrating my anniversary." He turned back around to face her, planting both hands on his hips. "And the woman I was with wasn't my wife."

His words hit her square between the eyes.

He had been out to some fancy dinner that night, just, you know, not with this wife.

Because that. That just made everything _so_ much better.

"Oh, _God_." Buffy spun around and reached a shaking hand for the doorknob, twisting the lock back and flinging the door open. Rushing out of the bathroom and into the hall, raising her hand to wipe the taste of him off her lips, she asked him, "What, do you just have a different girl for every week?"

"Bloody hell," Spike's hand closed around her arm again, not hard, but with enough force to still her progress. "Will you just shut that pretty mouth of yours and let me explain?"

For the second time that night, Buffy spun to face him and yanked her arm out of his grip, her hands curling into fists at her sides as she glared up at him. Her right hand empty, itching to reach up and smack him across the face. "If you touch me _one more time_ , I swear to God, I'll—"

He stepped directly into her personal bubble, just inches between their faces as he challenged her, voice impossibly low. "You'll what, pet?" His eyes widened mockingly, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. "Shove me?" He paused, eyes dropping to her bare arm. He reached out and slid his fingers over her skin, hand closing around her upper arm once more. "Slap me?" He let his hand slip slowly down her arm to her wrist. Watching his movements intently, lowering his voice, his eyes found hers again. "Kiss me?"

Buffy's mouth ran dry as her eyes shifted, involuntarily, to his mouth. Gorgeous, soft. A little swollen from the savage kiss he'd given her in the bathroom.

A small step closer to her. Another challenge as he leaned down and whispered, "Do it."

She wanted to. God, in this moment she wanted to do all three. Shove him. Slap him. Kiss him. All of it at the same time. It's what she wanted. _He_ was what she wanted. And he was begging her to do it too, both in word and deed. All of it.

She wanted to, she did.

But she wouldn't.

So she shook her head and said simply, her voice soft and desperate, "Go _home_."

Buffy turned again to go herself, but Spike's hand circled around her wrist and caught her, turning her back around one last time to face him. He looked at her for a long moment. Weighing something in his head, maybe. Trying to decide what to say. Buffy didn't know why she didn't just leave. Why she was waiting to hear what he was thinking, why she didn't just pull her hand out of his grip and walk away. He just looked so torn. Completely and totally lost, hating himself, probably hating her. Probably wondering why he hadn't just let her go that first day in his office if he really, honest to God thought she was such a problem.

Closing her eyes, finally pulling her wrist out of his hand, she repeated herself. "Go home, Spike."

And this time there was no hesitation from him as he reached for her again, saying, "Come with me."


	7. Chapter 7

**_-Friday, July 5th. 9:12am-_**

Cordelia dropped down into her desk with a flourish, setting her purse down and swiveling around to face Buffy. "So," she began, drawing the word out and leaning forward, "how was it?"

Buffy, who'd been staring down into her coffee in a daze, absently stirring the caramel colored liquid with her chin propped in her hand, blinked once. Glanced sideways. "Huh?"

She was distracted again. Majorly distracted. And confused.

And exhausted.

Cordelia, maybe mistaking the blank look on Buffy's face for the hangover everyone else seemed to be sporting, smiled and raised a brow. "The big party last night?" she pressed, gesturing with her hand. "Fireworks. 4th of July. You went with Xander." She tilted her head t to the side. "Ring any bells?"

It rung a lot of bells, actually. All of them shiny, urgent little warning dings going off in her ears even now. The party, the argument in the hallway, the kiss with Spike. _Ding, ding, ding._

"Oh, right," Buffy said, shoving those thoughts aside forcefully and exhaling, pulling her head out of her hand and sitting up straight. "Yeah. The party was good." A beat as she thought about it, glancing back toward her coffee. "Definitely…not what I expected."

Which was true. Probably an understatement, another big, massive, elephant sized understatement. But still, true.

"Not what you expected in a good way, or…?" the brunette trailed off expectantly, eyes wide, waiting for Buffy to finish her thought.

But since Buffy was having kind of a tough time wrapping her head around whatever it was she _was_ actually thinking, she figured they were both out of luck in that department.

"In a not what I expected way," she answered her friend simply, hoping to put an end to the topic. She shifted back in her chair, decided to try and shift the subject, too. Giving Cordelia a sympathetic face, Buffy asked, "How are you feeling?"

That seemed to do the trick. "Better today," Cordelia breezed, leaning back in her own chair, folding her arms reflexively over her stomach. Her expression turned slightly pained as she thought about how she'd spent the night before. "But it was totally touch and go there for a while."

"I'm sorry Cordy," Buffy said, meaning it. She pulled her wooden stir stick out of her coffee and replaced the disposable lid over the top of it, pretty much just moving on auto pilot. This was already her second cup, and so far it was doing jack in the way of squat of getting her head un-fogged. Spike, dealing with Spike…it always left her in a fog. Spun up, turned around.

 _Completely and utterly screwed._

To make matters just that much worse, there was no way she was going to be able to avoid him today and she knew it. Even if she hadn't been supposed to work with him in the afternoon, they had an all staff meeting this morning that she was pretty sure he'd be at. Buffy wasn't sure she was quite ready to face him just yet. Not after last night. God, she wasn't sure she'd even be able to look at him in front of a room full of people after last night.

To her right, completely oblivious to the wild internal whirlwind raging inside Buffy's head, Cordelia shrugged. "No big," she was saying. "My fault for thinking it would be a good idea to do discount sushi. Just bummed I had to miss your first big Pratt party."

"Well, my first big Pratt party missed you, too," Buffy told her, wrapping both her hands around her coffee and lifting it to her lips.

"Of course it did." Cordelia turned and pulled a yellow legal pad out her desk drawer, snapped up a pen from her stash and laid it down on top. "But Xander said you guys somehow managed to have fun without me anyway."

That had Buffy's lips quirking around her coffee, momentarily pushing her own mental struggle aside and shifting her eyes toward the other girl. "He did, huh?"

Cordelia nodded, leaning forward to scribble the date at the top of the blank page in front of her. "He called me last night, left me this weird sounding voicemail." She paused, tapped her pen against the paper. "I couldn't understand half of it, but the gist was you guys were having a blast without _me_ , specifically." She glanced toward Buffy, a small, secretive smile on her lips. "Do you know anything about that?"

Buffy chuckled, nodding as she swallowed the sip she'd just taken. It looked like both she and Xander had made some questionable decisions last night. Lowering her cup back down to her desk, she said, "Let's just say Xander might have been the someone who belly flopped into the pool last night."

He hadn't. Not literally. But Cordelia's eyes widened like she got it, still smiling knowingly. "Kind of what I figured," she admitted, and Buffy guessed there was a little more to the weird sounding voicemail than just what the brunette had told her. She didn't get a chance to ask, though, because a second later Cordelia's eyes lit up as she spotted Xander walking toward them over the partition of their desks. "Speak of the devil," she said slightly under her breath. Then, a little louder, her expression growing mockingly sympathetic, "How you feeling, bud?"

Xander made a face at her, pulling the strap of his messenger bag over his head and setting it down on his desk with a thud. Lifting a hand to run it through his hair, he grimaced and asked, "Do I look like death warmed over with a steamy side of skull splitting headache?"

That was putting it nicely.

Buffy looked at her friend, taking in his disheveled appearance. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, his tie loose around his neck. He had massive bags under his eyes and was squinting toward the fluorescent lights above their desks like they'd said something offensive.

So she shared a look with Cordelia and said, "Pretty much."

"Then I feel how I look," Xander mumbled, reaching his hands up and scrubbing them down over his face.

"Here," Buffy reached up and handed him the black coffee she'd purchased for him on her way into work, about the time she'd needed to grab her second cup. Figuring he'd need it about as much as she had, though probably for different reasons. "My fool proof hangover cure."

Xander reached out and took it from her, lifting the lid and glancing into the cup. "Black coffee?" he asked, looking from the drink in his hand and back toward her, eyebrows raised.

"Works every time," she assured him, getting to her feet, gathering her leather bound notebook into her left hand and picking up her own coffee in her right.

"Guess I'll take your word for it." He lifted it to his lips and took a small sip, grimaced a little, then set the coffee down. "Don't think my stomach's quite ready to have anything in it just yet." Stepping around the side of his desk and around to where Buffy was standing, he asked, "You guys ready to roll?"

"Oh, Xander," Cordelia groaned, standing and pressing a hand into her stomach. She made a face at him as they began to walk down the hall. " _Please_ don't say the word roll."

Buffy laughed in spite of herself, listening quietly to Cordelia as she began to complain about the staff meeting they were heading in to. She'd told Buffy before that the monthly meetings were boring, always lasted longer than they needed to and rarely ever actually dealt with subjects that were relevant to their department. But Buffy found herself actually kind of looking forward to her first one, relieved to have a little something to distract her from her unruly thoughts, to distract her from being distracted by Spike. Something to eat up a little extra time out of their day. Extra time she then wouldn't have to spend in his office, sitting across from him.

They'd just reached the conference room, Cordelia disappearing inside, when Xander caught Buffy by the arm and held her back. She turned to face him, her brow furrowed.

"I just wanted to apologize again about last night," he said softly, lowering his voice so the people milling around them, going into the conference room, couldn't hear.

Buffy frowned at him. "For what?"

"For everything." He glanced away from her, looking embarrassed. He ran a hand loosely through his dark hair again. "Drinking too much, disappearing on you…"

Buffy shook her head, hurrying to reassure him. "It really wasn't a big deal." She said it for two different reasons. Both because it really wasn't a big deal, and because she didn't want to rehash the details of last night. Worried her facial expression might give something away, or she'd slip and say something she shouldn't.

Xander sighed heavily, nodding his head and turning his eyes back toward hers. "If you say so. I just feel bad about having to make you leave the party early."

"Trust me," Buffy promised her friend now, "I was more than ready to go by that point." A beat as she thought about the way the evening at the Pratt house had ended, her voice lowering. "All partied out."

 ** _-Thursday, July 4th. 10:10pm-_**

"Come with me."

Buffy's eyes fluttered open, Spike's hushed words echoing in her head as she stared back at him. _Come with me_. Go with him? Go with him where, exactly? To his home? Back to the apartment he'd brought her to their first night? Even then, where they were going wasn't as big an issue in her mind at the moment as the getting there. He wanted her to leave the party? Leave _with_ him?

What, was he insane?

Buffy thought about what he'd said to her on the patio. Following her in here, chasing after her, calling her name. His words in the bathroom. The violent, jealousy fueled kiss.

So, yeah. Maybe.

Buffy looked at him, met his eyes as steadily as she could with hers and said, "No."

"Yes," Spike countered steadily, not missing a beat.

She frowned at him. He really was impossible. Impossible to deal with, impossible to ignore, impossible to get around. And the other impossible thing he was. The other impossible that was getting hard and harder to ignore the long she stood here and looked at him, let herself be taken in by the spark in the blue of his eyes.

 _Impossible to resist._

"Spike, no," she insisted again, the volume of her voice lowering. She tried to pull her wrist away from him once more but he only tightened his grip. "Let go of me," her eyes shot over his shoulder, back to what she could see of the French doors, "Someone's going to see."

His response was simply stated, matter of fact. "Then we should get goin'."

He wasn't going to take no for an answer. He had that look on his face, the one that let her know he wasn't used to being told no. Not when he really wanted something, not when he pulled out all the stops and _demanded_ what he wanted.

Buffy was getting the overwhelming impression that right now what he wanted was her. What part of her, though, she wasn't sure. Because there was more than lust in his eyes as he gazed calmly at her now.

And it was that something else she saw there that reaffirmed what she'd already decided. "I'm not coming with you," she told him, shaking her head again. "I can't. I need to find Xander, make sure he's okay—"

Spike sighed, letting go of her wrist and turning his eyes to the ceiling as he cursed under his breath. She watched his jaw tic impatiently. "Then meet me," he said, his eyes finding hers again. "Afterwards. You remember the place?"

She did. Not how to get there, no. She hadn't exactly been paying attention. But the place, the building. His apartment number.

Yeah, she remembered.

"I…no," she lied, watching numbly as Spike proceeded to dig his cell phone out of his pocket. "I don't think so." He was typing something, his eyes on the screen. She frowned. "What are you—"

"There," he said, inclining his head toward the red clutch in her hand and putting his phone back in his pocket. "Now you have the address."

Insane. Certifiably.

"You just texted me the address to your secret apartment?" she hissed at him, digging into her purse, pulling her phone out. Sure enough, one message was waiting.

 **Spike. 7/4 10:15pm** _234 Causeway St. #38A_

Buffy looked up, gaping at him. "Are you out of your mind?" She poised her thumb over the delete button, but his voice stopped her.

"Technically, it's a condo," he corrected her coolly, the slight hint of a smirk ghosting his lips. "And it's not _exactly_ a secret."

"That's even worse," she told him defiantly, darkening her phone's screen and shoving it back into her tiny purse. "I can't just—"

Spike groaned, obviously growing impatient with her. He reached a hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, looking like she was starting to give him a headache. "Fine, don't meet me." He dropped his hand away, looking at her seriously. "Just call me."

She made a face at him, wrinkled her nose, crossed her arms and challenged, "Why?"

And Spike laughed.

Threw his head back and _really_ laughed, the sound warm and rumbling, echoing off the wood floors and up around them in the empty hallway. "Jesus," he chuckled, dropping his chin down to meet her eyes again. His were sparking. "Do you have to make everythin' so bleeding difficult? Just…do it, alright?" His gaze softened a little, the smirk on his lips falling just slightly as he paused. Then, before she could stop him or think to move away, he reached his hand up and brushed a stray strand of her hair back behind her ear. "Give me a chance to explain."

His hand lingered in her hair. Twisting the bottom of the curled strand he'd just brushed back around his fingers, sliding them down to the ends. The back of his hand grazed the bare skin at the edge of her collar bone, and Buffy couldn't help the sound, the little stutter of her breath catching reflexively in her throat on contact.

His eyes dropped to her mouth.

Her lips parted.

The French doors opened.

Jumping back away from him, Buffy cleared her throat and dropped her hands down to her sides, needlessly smoothing down the hem of her dress just in time to hear her name being called.

Her eyes shot to Spike's, going wide. "That's Xander."

Why did she feel so guilty? Like they'd just been doing something more than just talking.

He just smirked at her, his eyes still doing that sparkling, dancey thing. "And, that's my cue." He skirted around her, getting just close enough to her ear to whisper "I'll talk to you later" as he passed, warm breath fluttering her hair.

"No, you won't," Buffy said quietly, more for her own ears than for his. She stood still and listened for his steps in the foyer, the creak of the big wooden door on its hinges as he opened it and shut it behind him just as Xander stepped into the hallway.

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 9:32am-_**

"I also wanted to thank you again for making sure me and my car got home in one piece," Xander murmured to Buffy as they wove their way through the large conference room, side-stepping around the bodies that had already claimed their spots. They found their seats beside Cordelia, the room buzzing softly with several different conversations going on at once. Mostly involving the party last night, too, she imagined.

"What," Buffy sat her notebook down, her coffee beside it, and pulled out a pen. She glanced sideways at him. "Did you think I was just gonna leave you there?"

He was about to respond when a loud, clear voice broke over the din in the room to call the attending staff members' attention to the front.

"Alright everyone." A short, middle-aged woman with sandy blonde hair, shrewd brown eyes and a gorgeously tailored pantsuit was saying, glancing around the large room. Buffy recognized her as Gina Collins, some higher up over on the marketing side of Pratt. She wasn't sure exactly what she did, or what her actual title was, but boy, the woman had just about zero trouble commanding a room when she wanted to. "We have a lot to go over this morning so if you could all continue your conversations on your own time," she paused for effect, waiting for the room to go completely silent before she smiled, "that'd be great."

Buffy tried to listen to Gina. She really, really did. Even tried to take notes on what she was saying. But she wasn't focused. Her head was somewhere else entirely, and her eyes kept flickering toward the door to the conference room. Spike wasn't there, hadn't shown up. Buffy hadn't known what to expect, exactly. If he'd be required to come to an all staff meeting or not. She'd assumed he would, but she could have assumed wrong, was starting to believe she had.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes went by. She was beginning to think he wasn't coming after all.

And then the door opened.

"…so we'll be working to push ahead on planning that book signing for August and _William_." Gina turned to face him as he stepped inside the room, let the door fall shut behind him. His shirt sleeves were carefully rolled to his elbows, a red pen tucked behind his left ear. Gina cocked her head to the side and smiled icily at him. "So nice of you to decide to join us."

Spike ducked his head and grinned disarmingly at the older woman. "Apologies Gina, just runnin' a bit behind this morning." He stepped aside, moving deftly to the corner of the room, and leaned back against the wall casually. Left hand drifting automatically into his pocket as he said, "Don't mind me."

Gina eyed him through her lashes, looking thoroughly uncharmed by him before she sniffed, turned her nose up and turned to face the staff again. As she began to speak once more, finishing up her report and her portion of the meeting, Buffy hazarded a furtive glance at Spike.

His eyes met hers from across the room and held.

 ** _-Thursday, July 4th. 11:56pm-_**

She had just enough time to realize what a massively, massively bad idea this probably was, what a giant mistake she was probably making, but that was it. In the long, extended seconds between reaching her hand up and knocking and him opening the door, she had just enough time to realize she shouldn't have come. That nothing good could possibly come from this. That if she turned around and fled down the hall right then, right that second, he might never even know she'd been there.

And then the door opened.

"Buffy?" Spike looked surprised to see her, which she thought was kind of weird considering he'd all but begged her to come there in the first place. "What's the matter?"

She stared up at him, blinking rapidly. He'd changed out of his blazer, stood in front of her now in just the faded jeans and the white V-neck from the party. His hair was tousled, platinum curls artfully gelled across his forehead.

He was barefoot.

She thought it was adorable,

Then remembered she didn't have the right to think that, remembered why she was there and, resolved, she pushed past him and into the condo, saying, "Explain."

"Come on in," Spike muttered dryly, glancing at Buffy over his shoulder before pushing the front door closed again and turning slowly to face her. He was smug. She could see it written on his face, just the slightest hint of a quirk in his lips as he slid the lock back in place and took a step toward her.

Trying her best not to sound flustered, she narrowed her eyes on him. "You said you wanted me to give you a chance to explain, so…explain." She shifted from one foot to the other, crossed her arms. Uncrossed them again. Sighed. "I'm listening."

Spike eyed her from across the small space between them, then sighed himself, the bravado he'd put on a moment ago slipping away. He nodded and stepped over into his kitchen, pulling open a darkly stained cabinet to pull down a glass. Pausing, he glanced at her over his shoulder. "Can I get you anythin'?"

More alcohol. _So_ not what she needed.

Buffy turned and tossed her purse down onto Spike's wooden coffee table. "Answers would be nice."

He took the glass in his hand and crossed the room, passing in front of her to reach the long book shelf stretching across the far wall. "I'll tell you anythin' you wanna know, pet," he told her, grabbing for the same bottle he'd poured their drinks from the last time she'd been there, filling his glass about a quarter of the way up before putting the bottle away and turning back around to face her. "Within reason."

"Do you always have to have an out?" she asked him pointedly, eyes narrowing as he leaned back casually, left elbow propped up on the shelf behind him.

"Caveats do come in handy." He lifted his glass and took a drink. Buffy's eyes darted involuntarily toward his hand.

No ring.

She wondered for a brief moment if he only wore it when he was at work and took it off the rest of the time. Toyed with the idea of asking him about it. Decided it was better not to bring up the oh-so-conspicuously missing symbol of his commitment and fidelity in light of the moment that had passed between them at the party.

Squaring her shoulders, she chose a different direction all together. "Tell me about that night," she said, not bothering to clarify which of the "that night"s she might have been talking about.

Spike dropped his eyes to his drink, swirled the amber liquor around. "What about it?"

"Why did Faith tell me you were celebrating your anniversary?"

He looked like he'd been expecting that question to be coming. "Honestly?" He raised a brow, shook his head. "I've got no buggering clue. Sides the fact I was there with a woman and ordered a bottle of champagne, I can't think of any other reason."

Buffy couldn't think of another reason, either. Faith was impulsive though, and she might have thought she heard or even saw something that she didn't. Sort of the make judgements first, think or ask questions later type. But that made more sense, anyway. Faith had said the table got awkwardly silent whenever she went by to check on them. It's possible they'd been discussing something they'd wanted to keep private.

Buffy sucked in a deep breath, let it slowly out through pursed lips and asked, "But she wasn't your wife?"

"No," he said it meaningfully, lowering his voice as he looked her in the eye, "she wasn't my wife."

She held his gaze for another moment before she had to look away from whatever she was seeing there. Turning toward his leather sofa, folding her arms across her waist, she asked her next question. The natural follow up. "Who was she?"

He took a moment before responding to her, and Buffy imagined him sipping from his drink. Then, "Her name is Lilah Morgan." She heard him push off the bookshelf, felt him take a step toward her even though she wasn't looking at him. "She's…a friend of the family." A beat. "And a lawyer."

That hadn't been what she'd expected. At all.

Buffy whipped her head back to look at him. "A…" she trailed off, blinking at him a few times before she managed to get the words out. "She's a lawyer?"

"That's right."

A million different thoughts went through her head at the same time, spinning up in a whirlwind and battering against one another until all that was left was one. One singular thought above all the rest. Why Spike was having dinner with a family friend. A family friend who happened to be a lawyer. Why they'd been celebrating…something.

Buffy swallowed hard, her mouth having gone a little dry. She watched Spike take another slow sip of his drink, his eyes fixed on her face. Patient. Intentional. Just waiting for her to ask the next most obvious question. Buffy wasn't sure why she was suddenly feeling like this whole thing was a game to him again, the way she'd felt standing in Henry Pratt's hallway. Maybe it was the gleam in his eyes she could just make out in the lamplight. Or it could have been the slight curve of his lips as he lowered his glass again.

A game. Twenty-questions. He wasn't going to offer her any information out right, but if she asked he'd have to answer.

So she'd play.

"What…" she dropped her gaze to the floor, "I mean, what kind of law does she—"

"Family law," Spike responded simply, cutting her off before she could finish the question. Another pause, and Buffy heard him inhale, exhale slowly and say, "She's a divorce attorney."

She couldn't help her reaction. Couldn't keep her eyes from going wide or her eyebrows from shooting sky high, her hands from falling to her sides as she turned her body to face his again. The only thing she managed to keep from happening was crossing the space between them. She kept her feet planted, digging her heels into the wood floor to anchor herself in place.

Her head jumped back to what she'd been told about the dinner they'd shared. Quiet, somber, somehow still something passing as celebratory.

The tiniest flash of something that felt a lot like exhilaration flared in her chest. "You're getting a divorce?"

But even before he moved to answer her, the little flare flickered and died out as she read the expression on his face. Something, some strange mix of resentment and resignation passing across his features as he hollowed his cheeks, clenched his jaw.

She answered the question for him. "You're not."

Spike tore his gaze away from hers. Raised his glass once more and downed the rest of the liquid before turning back toward the shelf to set it down. Bracing his hands against it, his back to her, she watched his shoulders lift slightly as he breathed in. Lower again as he breathed out.

"No," he said finally, his voice betraying the million different things he was probably thinking. The hundred different things he wanted to say. Definitive and unsteady at the same time. "I'm not."

And it was the unsteadiness she could hear in his voice that made her ask the next question. "Do you want to?"

In response, Spike chuckled. Low and rumbling, the tiniest bit bitter, and not at all like he actually thought this situation they'd found themselves in was even the eensiest bit funny. "Wanted that for a long time, pet," he said softly, pulling his hands off the bookshelf and turning to face her. "Long before I met you."

Well, that was something at least. Not much. But something. It made a little bit more sense if that was true, his actions toward her. That night in the bar. In his office the next day. In his office again every day after that. Tonight, at the party. In the bathroom. That kiss.

He _wanted_ to get a divorce, he just wasn't going to get one.

And as she repeated the words to herself in her head she realized they didn't make any sense at all.

Buffy eyed him, still holding her ground. "You want a divorce?"

"Yes."

She arched a brow. "But you aren't getting one."

He exhaled. "No."

A silent beat passed as they stared at each other. Then she asked, "You know that doesn't make sense, right?"

Spike sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. The muscle in his jaw ticked and he said, "I'm aware."

Buffy blinked at him. Tried to wrap her head around that for a minute.

Couldn't.

The man was brilliant. Undisputedly. Buffy knew it, had seen him prove it to her countless times over the past month. An authoritative, arrogant, _impossibly_ stubborn man who was standing in front of her, who'd cornered her in the bathroom at a party just hours before and kissed her breathless, who was married and didn't want to be.

But who wasn't willing to do anything about it.

It wasn't tracking for Buffy.

"Then why?" She asked Spike now, giving into the impulse to take a step closer to him. Brow furrowed, frowning. "If you've wanted to get a divorce for a long time why haven't you?"

He made no move to respond to her. Just stood with his back against his books, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Eyes cast down. Buffy couldn't tell if it was that he didn't want to look at her, or if he just couldn't.

She stood there and gazed at him, waiting for his answer. For whatever logic he was going to try and pass off on her for this. Why he'd be at a nice restaurant meeting with a family friend who happened to be a divorce attorney even though he wasn't getting a divorce, apparently had no plans to.

She waited. Minutes ticked by.

And then she realized he hadn't answered her because he wasn't going to. She'd stepped over the line, was outside of reason already.

"Is this one of those times where those caveats of yours come in handy?" she asked him icily.

Spike didn't respond to the anger in her voice. Just sighed, lifting his chin so his gaze was level with hers. "Believe me, Buffy, I wish I could tell you. Want to give you the answers you're askin' for." He turned to look out the window, and the city lights, the cars passing by on the street outside. "The answers you deserve." He seemed to think about it for a moment, maybe taken in fleetingly by the idea of telling her whatever it was he was thinking. Weighing it in his head, what the consequences might be. But the moment passed and he shook his head, looking at her once more. "I just can't. Not without gettin' you involved."

That made Buffy scoff. A short puff of air out of her nose as she glared at him and asked sarcastically, "Because I'm not involved already?"

Spike's expression changed in an instant. Eyes flashing, lips forming a hard line. "Buffy." His tone was short and clipped, dismissive. A warning. "Leave it be."

She was stunned into silence. The combination of the hard edge in his voice and fierce expression on his face making her step back, lashes fluttering. Whatever it was he was hiding, whatever secret he was keeping, it was something bigger than just a failed marriage.

It was also something he very, _very_ clearly wasn't about to share with her.

And even as she was feeling bitten, like a child who'd just had their hand slapped away, Spike's expression softened again. He crossed the several feet that separated them, coming into her personal space, looking down at her with swirling, stormy eyes. Looking a whole lot like he wanted to reach out and touch her again. But he held back, tucked his thumbs through his belt loops instead and sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, and she honestly wasn't sure what he was apologizing for.

She also wasn't sure it mattered, because suddenly, all she could think about, the _only_ thing she could fit into her brain was how badly she wanted to kiss him again. He had that same lost, helplessly torn look on his face as she'd seen back at the party and it just did something to her. Melted her resistance. Made her want to throw herself into his arms and stay there, stay here. Pretend like the conversation they'd just had had ended differently. Pretend he'd just told her he wanted to get a divorce, so he was. To what point, to what purpose, she wasn't even sure. It wasn't like they could be together either way. Wasn't like he even _wanted_ to be with her that way if he could.

She knew that. Knew all of that. And still, she wanted to stay.

And that was why she needed to leave.

Resigned, feeling like she'd probably gotten all the answers from him she was going to about the night at Chophouse at least, Buffy sighed and said, "Okay."

"Okay." Spike sounded surprised. He blinked at her now, dark brows coming together across his forehead. "Okay…what?"

"Just…okay." Buffy reached down and picked her purse off the coffee table, skirted around him and started to walk slowly back in the direction of the front door. "Thank you for telling me the truth."

She meant it too, she realized. She was thankful that he'd told her the truth. Or as much of it as he could, anyway. As much as he was willing to. It helped her understand him a little better, which is what she was ultimately the most grateful for. And she couldn't lie. Not to herself, at least. Hearing that Spike wanted to get a divorce, had wanted to get a divorce for a while now, made her irrationally, unrightfully happy. Not that it changed anything, because it didn't. He was still married. Had every intention of staying married. And on top of that, he was still her boss.

But she understood better now. Didn't find him as confusing, or his signals nearly as mixed. True, knowing and understanding him did just this side of nothing to change their situation, did less than nothing to quell the mixy emotions and the misplaced desires she had going on in her gut as she approached the front door now. But that didn't seem to matter at the moment.

She'd deal with that tomorrow.

Buffy was just about to pass the kitchen when Spike called her name. Stopping her short, he asked, "You're leavin'?"

Sighing, Buffy turned back around to face him. She shrugged, saying, "I don't have any reason to stay."

Spike looked at her then, and she saw it happen. Saw his expression start to shift as he approached her slowly. Smooth, agile steps, his feet silent on the wood floor. "I can think of a couple," he said silkily, shifting in an instant from tortured and lost to predatory and alluring.

And this worked even better on her than his obvious confliction had.

Nothing about the way he was looking at her or speaking to her was overtly sexual, but it was all there in the subtext. The way he played with his word choice. The carefully timed flutter of his lashes, the curve of his mouth.

"Yeah? Well, I can't," she lied. She _could_. She could think of several. But they all landed her pretty firmly in the adulterous tramp category. Shaking her head, reaffirming her need to get out and get out _now_ , she told him, "I shouldn't even be here."

That had him pausing, cocking his head to the side to consider her. Like he'd just realized something he hadn't before.

Stepping just a hair closer to her, he fanned his lashes down from her face to the hem of her dress and back up again. He was so close to her now, too close. Much too close if she could smell the intoxicating mix of scents that always seemed to permeate the space around him. Cigarettes and alcohol, and always the hint of mint. She sucked a breath in and held it, figuring it had to be easier to think if she couldn't smell him.

Either oblivious to or uncaring of, or quite possibly _enjoying_ , the effect he was having on her, Spike tilted his head further to the side. "Why _did_ you come here, Buffy?"

Thrown for a minute, she frowned at him. Had they not already been over this? "I told you—"

"That you wanted answers," he supplied with a nod. "Yeah, got that part. But why not just call?" He inched just a little closer to her again, lowering his voice. "Why'd you tuck yourself in a cab and come all the way over here?"

She took her time thinking that over, even though the answer, the true answer, came to her she bit down on the true response quick and hard and said instead, "I don't know."

Her denial only seemed to amuse him.

"Yes," Spike insisted evenly, eyes sparking as he looked down at her. "You do. But you're right, you shouldn't be here." he pulled himself out of her space and Buffy could breathe again, her head spinning. "Not until you're ready to admit it to yourself."

"Admit what to myself?" she asked, breathing deeply. Clean, un-Spike scented air.

He smirked at her, eyes gleaming and perceptive and just way, way too blue. "That you're here because you want to be."

She moved to deny him again, immediately. "I don't want to be here." But this time her voice wavered. And again, the truth echoed in her head. _I don't want_ to want _to be here._

She hoped Spike hadn't caught it.

He had.

Narrowing his eyes on her, he said, "Don't bloody lie to me. Know you know damn well what I'm talkin' about." He paused then, his tongue curling up behind his top teeth. "Know you felt it when you kissed me tonight."

Buffy's mouth dropped open.

Incensed at whatever it was he was insinuating, hearing the innuendo dripping from the words like honey, she lunged toward him. Jabbed him in the chest hard with her index finger. "You kissed _me_ tonight." She yanked her hand back before he could reach up and grab it. "I shoved you into the sink."

"Because _you_ got scared," he insisted sharply, the clam façade slipping piece by piece. The more she denied him it seemed the more frustrated he became.

Buffy scoffed at him, planting her hands on her hips in an attempt to cover just how close to home his words were hitting. "Scared?" she challenged him. "What could I have _possibly_ been scared of?"

It happened blindingly fast.

Growling, eyes blazing, Spike reached for her then. Wrapped his hands around her upper arms and pulled her toward him, leaned down toward her face and watched as her lips parted on instinct. "Me," he answered her honestly, his voice dangerously low. "Yourself. _This_." He paused, chest heaving as his eyes dropped to her mouth, the grip around her arms tightening just slightly. "Whatever it is that's there between us."

And he started to lean toward her. Buffy could only wait, frozen, pinned in place by both his grip and her own traitorous body for his lips to brush against hers. But just before they did, she remembered herself. Remembered why there should be a big flashing neon sign of _NO_ pulsing in her head right now instead of the soft, luxurious little whimpers of _yes_ that were currently working their way through her nervous system.

He was right, she _was_ scared. Scared of whatever it was that was there between them, and what it meant. What it made her.

Putting her hands on his chest, she shoved him away and shouted, "There can't be anything between us, Spike!" He barely stumbled, hardly moved back a foot, but it was enough for Buffy to get her bearings again, to shove the little _yes_ whispering voice down again.

"Right," Spike said sardonically, tilting his head and widening his eyes. "Because saying something can't exist means it just up and disappears."

" _This_ should," she demanded hotly, pointing down to her feet for emphasis.

"Why?" Spike challenged, leaning back and raising his brows.

Buffy froze. Words failed her, wholly and completely, as she stared back at him. His eyes black with lust, hair mussed, her fingers itching to reach up and tangle in the soft platinum curls. Desperate, Buffy searched wildly for the right words. The right explanation, a way to make him understand what she was thinking and feeling and all the little nuanced emotions swirling around in her stomach. In the end, all she could manage was "Because it's wrong."

His response. "Doesn't mean it isn't real."

She was frustrated, both with him and with herself. Annoyed, angry for even coming here in the first place, for not leaving when she'd had the chance. Exhausted and spun up the way she only seemed to get when things with Spike were concerned, and tired of fighting what felt to her like a losing battle, Buffy threw her hands out to her sides. "What do you want me to say?" She asked him, shaking her head. "That I have feelings for you? Fine, Spike. You win. I have _feelings_ for you."

She got a small flicker of satisfaction from the way his eyes widened at that, the way he swallowed hard and looked, for once, like he wasn't sure what to say. A look that was unmistakably surprised pleasure. But it was small. Only lasted a moment before she remembered it didn't mean anything. Buffy dropped her hands back down to her sides and looked away from him. "But that doesn't matter. You're married, and you're not getting a divorce. Because…well, for whatever stupid, secret reason. And I don't…" she trailed off, shutting her eyes for an extended second before opening them and looking at Spike again. "Nothing I say is going to change anything."

The air grew still between them. Neither of them moved, neither of them spoke. It was silent and tense and Buffy wanted nothing more than to turn tale and run, run all the way back to her own apartment. Deal with all this later, when she wasn't so tired. When she wasn't so confused.

When she wasn't so ready to give in.

But true to form, Spike wasn't going to make it that easy.

"Don't need you to say anythin', pet," he told her gently, all the ire and blaze and anger from moments ago faded out now that she'd done what he'd asked her to. Admitted it to him, to herself. Out loud. He reached for her, thought better of it, brought his hand back to himself and said, "Just stay with me."

She shook her head and backed away from him. "I can't."

"You _can_ ," he told her pointedly, looking frustrated again, "you just—"

"No, Spike," she said again, her voice harder this time. Her eyes stayed glued to his so she could read him, could know he was hearing her. Understand what she couldn't bring herself to say out loud. "I _can't._ I can't be the other woman." _Please_ , she thought to herself, searching his eyes. Wondering if he could read her mind now. _Don't make me into that._

 _Don't put me in a position where I want to_ be _that._

Whatever it was he saw there, in her eyes, written on her face, it got the point across. Maybe not the whole point, but enough. Enough that Buffy could see he understood even if he didn't say anything right away. She didn't say anything either.

Later, she'd wonder why she didn't just leave right then. Why she didn't take the extended silence as her cue to go, to get out while she still could. Before anything else could happen. Anything they couldn't come back from.

But in the moment she didn't even consider it.

"Okay," Spike said finally, nodding his head. He glanced away from her, down toward the kitchen counter. "I'm…I should never have dragged you into this. If I'd have known who you were, that I'd be seein' you all day every day, that you'd be _so_ …" he trailed off, searching for the right words. Seemed to give up. Sighing, he turned his eyes up to the ceiling. "I never would've…"

"But you did," she said simply. Not accusing, not blaming. Just…there. A fact. " _We_ did."

Spike smirked half-heartedly, shifting his eyes up to her again. "Can't take it back now, can we?"

She exhaled through her nose. "No."

"Nothin' we can do to change it," He murmured, took a step closer.

"I…no." Buffy looked down to the ground, focusing on her feet. The red patent leather peep-toe heels she'd borrowed from Faith.

It grew heavily quiet again.

Then, suddenly, his voice rasping and low. "Let me kiss you."

Buffy whipped her eyes to his, blinking, positive this time, for sure, she'd heard him wrong. But Spike just looked steadily back at her. He didn't approach her. Didn't grab for her. Didn't demand it from her, not like he had earlier. He just stood there, hands tucked in his pockets, watching her face for whatever reaction she was going to give him.

When she didn't give him much of anything other than a blank stare, he said, "Just one kiss." His voice was soft, coaxing. Sweet. And different than Buffy had ever heard it before. "One more time."

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 10:35am-_**

Spike stared at her through the rest of the meeting.

Even when she wasn't looking toward him, and she spent most of the time attempting to keep her eyes on the front of the room, she could feel his gaze. Even when she specifically kept her eyes down on her scribbled page of notes, head bent down, hair falling in front of her face like a shield. She could feel it. Feel him. How singularly, how _intensely_ he was focusing on her.

She had no idea how no one else seemed to notice.

She could feel the heat from his scrutiny on her all the way up until the end of the meeting, when people finally began filing out of the conference room. As soon as she felt freed, like no one's eyes were on her, she glanced up toward his spot on the wall. Not surprisingly, she didn't see him standing there in the corner of the room anymore.

"God, I hate those meetings," Cordelia grumbled, picking up her legal pad and pen and pushing herself to her feet. "They're so pointless."

"Agreed," Xander chimed in, still rubbing absently at his temples. Apparently, the slow meeting had done nothing to lessen his headache.

They made their way around the room and over toward the door. Stepping out into the hallway, Buffy asked, "Are they always like that?"

Cordelia turned angled her body slightly toward her, frowning. "Not really. This one was totally weird." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Anybody else feel all that tension in the room?"

Buffy's eyes shot over to hers, widening slightly. "What?"

"You mean with Mr. Pratt interrupting what's-her-face from marketing?" Xander asked, nodding his head and letting out a low whistle. "Could cut that with a butter knife."

Relieved that the undivided attention Spike had been giving her hadn't been the super awkward tension Cordelia'd been talking about, Buffy felt her shoulders sag. "Oh, right," she agreed weakly, nodding as she looked away again. "That was weird."

Great, she thought numbly, tucking her notebook firmly against her chest as she walked back down the hall, sandwiched comfortably between Xander and Cordelia. Now she was paranoid. Because _that's_ just what she needed. Because that wouldn't make everything just that much more complicated.

"So, what's your deal?" Cordelia asked once they'd reached their desks again, after setting their things back down. She turned toward Buffy, one hand on her hip. "Are you with us today, or are you with Mr. Pratt?"

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 12:35am-_**

 _Let me kiss you._

His words rang in her ears

 _Just one kiss._

Just one. Just one itty bitty, teeny tiny kiss. Just one.

 _One more time._

One more time. It sounded so simple. So honest and innocent, even though she knew it wasn't. Nothing about this was innocent now. She had been able to claim ignorance before, the first time. The night in the bar. She hadn't known he was married then.

Not like she knew now.

But now she also knew now that he wasn't happily married, and even though that didn't matter, _couldn't_ matter, it somehow felt to her in the moment like it did.

So she knew it was wrong. Bad. A thousand gallons of nothing _but_ bad. Two tons more of _nothing good can come from this_.

And yet, for whatever inexplicable reason, Buffy found herself nodding and whispering, "Okay."

Spike didn't look surprised by her answer, but he didn't look smug either.

He kept a small distance between them, holding her eyes with his as he brought a hand up to cradle her face, swiping his thumb in a steady line across her cheekbone. Back and forth. Back and forth. Slow, torturous, he searched her eyes for a long moment before he made another move closer.

When he did finally lean down to kiss her, it was nothing like what she'd been expecting. Nothing at all like the vicious kiss from the party. Nothing like the deep, open mouthed kisses they'd shared their first night, either. Instead, it was gentle and sweet. His lips just slightly parted, soft and warm as they touched hers and held. She held her breath as he inhaled deeply, his hand on her face gripping her just the tiniest bit tighter. Thumb still sweeping over her cheek.

Like he was memorizing her.

A goodbye kiss. That's what it was. Not lusty or heated or fueled by single-minded desire or anger or jealousy. Just…goodbye.

And Buffy just...did it. Made the decision before she could think too much about it. She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck, sighed into his mouth and kissed him deeply.

He was caught off guard, she could tell. For just a split second she felt him stiffen, but it was just that. A split second. And then he was kissing her in earnest, wrapping his free arm around her waist to haul her body against his.

"Just…" she breathed against his lips, luxuriating in the way his forearm brushed the sensitive bared skin at the swell of her lower back. "…one more time."

Spike nodded against her desperately, a stifled groan sounding low in his throat as he captured her lips again. Walking them backward until Buffy's back was flush to the door she'd been ready to walk out of just minutes ago, flattening his palms on either side of her head, he boxed her in.

She kissed him hungrily, greedily. Her hands slipping from his neck to his shoulders, scraping across his chest and down to twist in the fabric of this t-shirt. She used her grip in the hem of his shirt to tug him against her, back arching away from the door as she savored the velvet of his tongue tangling with hers, how he tasted just the tiniest bit sweet.

This was it. This was all she could take, and this last time she could take it. She knew it. Tonight was it.

 _Just one more time._

And that's what she was thinking, what was circling through her head on a loop as she nibbled lightly on his lower lip, pulled it into her mouth and brushed her tongue across it. He moaned again, surrendering completely to her.

They kissed each other breathless. Kissed until they physically couldn't anymore. Until her lungs were burning with a desperate, achy need for air and her lips were comfortably numb. While he'd kissed her, Spike's hands had moved from the door to her shoulders, from her shoulders down to her arms. To her hips, then back up again. Now he had one hand threaded through her hair, cradling the back of her head. The other teasing the exposed skin he'd found earlier at the small of her back.

Buffy's eyes were down now, her chest's movements finally stilling, recovering from the heaving gulps of air she'd sucked in once their lips had pulled apart. Her hands were still fisted in his t-shirt, her knuckles lightly grazing the skin of his abdomen. The top of the waistband of his jeans.

"I should go," she whispered, making no move to let go of him or move from her position against the door.

"Yeah," Spike agreed simply, making no move to release his grip, either. "You should."

And he kissed her again, long and deep and slow.

Buffy thought for a second about pushing him away. About telling him no, that they'd had their one more time. About turning around and letting herself out the door. But he was so close, so warm, and he tasted so good. And this was it. This _had_ to be it.

And she wasn't ready for it to be over.

Giving into him, her hands fell away from his shirt, dropped to grasp his hips and pull him more tightly against her. The desperate, heady moan that tore from his throat, muffled into her mouth, only served to egg her on. Frantic for more, she pushed off the door and began walking him backward. His hand twisted possessively in her hair, angled her head to the side so he could deepen the kiss. Inside her head, that little voice she'd heard back at the party was quiet; lulled into silence by knowing it was getting what it had wanted. At least a part of what it had wanted. Buffy's hands tunneled through his hair, his dug hard into her waist.

One more kiss, one more time. Somehow, it turned to two. Then three, and Buffy stepped out of her heels. Then four, and Spike's hands reached down, bunching the bottom of her dress up forcefully around her thighs. Finally, when he wrapped his arms all the way around her and picked her up, murmuring a husky sounding " _Please_ " against her lips, Buffy lost count.

She didn't even realize that one more time had turned into one more night until she was in his bed. Clinging to his back, tangled in his sheets. Trembling in his arms as his body pressed hers down into the mattress.


	8. Chapter 8

**_-Friday, July 5th. 11:24am-_**

Buffy stared down at the stack of envelopes in front of her, eyes crossing, blurring slightly. The pile on the right were all addressed and ready to go out. The stack on the left were clean and white. She'd been staring blankly down at the one currently in front of her for the last five minutes. Pen poised above it, pressing down into the parchment but not moving.

When Cordelia had asked her what her schedule was for the day, she hadn't thought twice before answering.

 _"_ _I'm with you guys today,"_ Buffy had said, forcing a bright smile onto her face as she lied. "Mr. _Pratt doesn't have any assignments for me."_

 _"_ _Ugh, thank God. I could really use your help with these,"_ she'd shifted the stack of blank envelopes, the list of names and addresses beside it, toward the middle where their desks met. _"_ _Lots of rejection letters this week. It won't be very exciting,"_ she'd said, splitting the pile up evenly, dividing it between them. _"_ _But I'll owe you big time."_

Buffy had sat down in her chair, pulled her stack of envelopes toward her and said, _"_ _Mindless tasks are sort of right up my alley today."_

And it had been true. A little mindless copy job had been right up Buffy's head spinny, desperately needing a distraction from the staff meeting stare-fest alley. The monotony of the task, not having to think, just having to copy from the list in front of her. It had been relaxing. Therapeutic. Distracting.

At first.

But it hadn't taken long for her thoughts to get all drifty again. The searing look in Spike's eyes as he'd gazed at her from across the conference room. All the unspoken words there, the things she knew he was probably thinking, wanting to say. Things she wasn't at all ready to hear him say.

Again.

He'd said plenty the night before. More than…too much. Not that he'd spent a lot of their time talking, not that he'd lain beside her and indulged in deep, _let me tell you about my life_ pillow talk. But what he _had_ said, the words he _had_ chosen. They'd given away more than he probably even realized.

And, God, the way he'd _looked_ at her last night.

"How you doin' over there?" Cordelia asked, her voice cutting through the becoming way too familiar Spike-induced haze.

Buffy looked up. "What?" Fluttered her lashes as her brain tried to connect with whatever question she'd just been asked. "Oh, good." She nodded. "I'm good."

Cordelia arched a skeptical brow. "Uh huh."

Caught, giving into the overwhelming desire to set her pen down and shove the envelopes away, Buffy sighed.

"Sorry." She reached a hand up and rubbed at her forehead, pressing her temples with the tips of her thumb and middle finger. "I guess I'm not all the way here today."

"A little bit of party-lag, huh?" the brunette asked sympathetically, turning back to her own pile of envelopes. She was quite a bit further along than Buffy. None of those pesky, guilt-ridden distract-a-thon thoughts to deal with.

"Can you tell?" she asked casually, folding her hands together to crack her knuckles, leaning back in her chair. She reached her arms up above her head, stretching her stiff shoulders and shifting awkwardly. There was a crick in her neck, an uncomfortable soreness in her hips. She shifted again, her right hip joint pinched. A flash in her mind's eye, vivid, pulsating. Her legs wrapped tightly around Spike's waist as he drove into her, his hands braced on the headboard of his bed. Followed immediately by an unbidden throb between her thighs.

Immediately after that, a giant wave of guilty, rolling queasiness.

 _Oh, boy._

Buffy shook her head and forced herself to focus on the brunette sitting beside her, listen to what it was she was saying.

"…wasn't going to say anything, but yeah." She grinned knowingly at Buffy, her voice taking on a light, teasing quality. "I don't think Xander's the only one that had a little too much fun last night."

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 12:54am-_**

Her nails were digging into Spike's shoulders. Dragging down, leaving trailing, bright red marks over the muscles as they flexed beneath her hands. Her head up off the pillow, biting lightly at the curve of his bicep as his body rocked against hers. Stretching her, filling her up to the point of delicious, delirious almost-pain. And just like his kisses, the taste of him earlier...against the door at the party, again, against the door to the condo. This. This was so good. _Too_ good. And better than she'd remembered.

Way better.

The salty tang of his skin on her lips. The ripple of his muscles beneath it. The firm, steady, expert pulsing of his body, the smooth undulation of his hips. His heated demands, hot whispered words. The way his body moved over her, with her, in her. She'd dumbed it down in her head, she knew that. Their first night in his bed, the way they'd been magnetized together, the way he'd been able to read her mind. Knew what she wanted, _needed_ , before she knew it herself. Buffy had made it less. Made _him_ less. Out of necessity. Self-preservation. Now, though, she couldn't do that.

Wasn't sure she'd ever be able to again.

"I thought about this," he was saying to her. His words were hot and husky, whispered through the veil of her hair and directly into her ear. "Wanted this. Wanted _you_ …" The next three, in time with his thrusts. "Every _bloody_ day…"

Buffy moaned loudly, the sound muffled against his arm, and threw her head back into the pillow. It was an involuntary reaction brought on by the combination of the movement of his body and the words in her ear. Giving into him completely, head hazy, clouded with lust, she licked her lips. Rolled her pelvis upward to capture him again, drive him deeper.

Spike shuddered in response, cursed under his breath and fell, his weight braced on his elbows. Never stopped moving. "And so did you," he told her heatedly, breathless, panting. Dropped his head to lick a trail up her now exposed throat. "You wanted this."

That little voice in the back of Buffy's mind was screaming, thrashing wildly. Deliriously content to be getting what it wanted. Answering his question wordlessly with a chorus of euphoric yeses. Lighting her skin on fire, burning her up from the inside out.

"I…ah," she gasped as his teeth closed over the curve of her neck, tilting her head further up, arching her back off the bed. She closed her eyes. "Oh, _God_ …"

He chuckled against her and bit down a little harder, gave an expert swirl of his hips and waited until she cried out and her eyes flew open again before releasing the swollen skin, laving it with his tongue. She trembled in his arms again, made another string of gasping sounds that she could have sworn were words once upon a time, and dug her nails deeper into his shoulders.

Pulling back up onto his palms, Spike extended his arms out so he could see her face. Shifted slightly, reaching around to grab her hands, fingers closing around her wrists. He pressed her arms down into the pillow on either side of her head.

"Tell me you wanted this," he demanded roughly, slowing the rhythmic motion of his hips to half time. Each push forward was so deliberate, so methodical. Slow and deep, the top of his pelvic bone rubbing her in _just that way_ every time. "Tell me you thought about this." His grip tightened. "About _me_."

He wanted her to talk? _Now?_ Buffy could barely catch her breath, let alone form coherent sentences. She couldn't think of anything except for the feel of him, couldn't get past the few words tumbling around in her head. _Need. More. Want. Now._ She could only stare up at him, watching him through fluttering, half shut eyes. Completely lost to lust. If he was looking for a comprehensible response, he wasn't going to be getting one.

"I...I," she couldn't get the words out, breath coming out in erratic puffs. Something about him looking down at her, his grip on her wrists, the rough demand in his voice. His pelvic bone rubbed across her again. " _Oh_..."

Spike pressed her wrists just a little harder down into the pillow, swiveled his hips. "Say it."

Every muscle in Buffy's body convulsed at his command. Her legs buckled, back arching wildly as her inner muscles spasmed hard around him and she cried out. A loud, gasping, " _Yes_."

Above her, his eyes flashed, dark with desire and pride and something else, something unchecked and raw that rendered Buffy completely unable to do anything other than what he was asking of her.

As he continued his languid thrusts, she sucked in a deep breath and nodded her head, searching his eyes. Letting the damn break, the walls she'd built specifically to keep him out, to keep _this_ from happening, crashing down around her as she gave in to every sensation he was causing in her. Being as open and vulnerable as she dared allow herself. For this one moment, this one last time, she nodded again and said in a whisper, "Yes, I wanted this."

Because she _had_ wanted this. And right now, in this moment, it was easier than ever to admit. To pretend like she wasn't doing anything wrong. That they were just two people. To forget about all the things that were going to come flooding back as soon as this moment ended. She could tell him honestly that yes, she'd wanted this. _Exactly_ this. Him above her, strong hands wrapped tight around her wrists, body covering hers. Demanding a response from her body. Demanding honesty from her lips.

Not letting her hide.

If this _was_ it, and to Buffy it was, had to be, then she wasn't going to hide. Her lashes fluttered and she repeated it, an even softer, sweeter whisper this time. "I wanted this."

Spike's eyes softened as he stared down at her, letting her words wash over him. For a brief moment, he stopped moving. Completely connected, pelvises flush together, he rested over her. His hands loosened their grip, and he gazed down at her with unbridled longing. Like a blind man seeing the sun for the very first time. And Buffy was too enthralled with him, too taken in by the look on his face, the swirling, raging emotions in his eyes, to say anything. To move.

"Wanted _me_ ," Spike finally whispered. Leaning down to ghost his lips over hers in a feather light kiss, he began to steadily thrust once more. His hands shifted from her wrists, coasting up her open palms. Their fingers met and wove together. "Tell me you wanted me."

"Yes." Buffy nodded against him, helpless to do anything else. Unable to hide. "Wanted you."

 _I just want you._

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 12:03pm-_**

She just wanted to eat her lunch in peace.

That was all.

She'd turned Cordelia and Xander down when they'd asked her to come with them, opting instead to hole up at her favorite coffee shop down the street. Take an hour, be by herself. Organize her thoughts. Try and get her head screwed back on straight before she inevitably had to return to the office. _His_ office.

She just wanted to sit and pick at the slightly too dry blueberry scone in front of her with no interruptions.

So when her phone went off, vibrating loudly from where she'd sat it on the table, she couldn't help but bite back a groan as she leaned forward to pick it up. One new message, from Spike. The third one he'd sent her already today. She'd deleted the first two without even reading them, not really even knowing why. Just...doing it. She didn't want to see what he had to say. Didn't want to read whatever it was he thought he could get away with sending her _now_.

So far, she'd been able to ignore him. Avoid him. Kept herself busy doing other work, helping Cordelia with projects. She hadn't exactly been lying when she'd said that Mr. Pratt hadn't given her any assignments for today-he hadn't. Not officially. And she really had been happy to help Cordelia with her busy work. And true, she hadn't been in a majorly big hurry to address the awkward day after of having slept with her boss for the _second_ time.

But if she was honest with herself, which she really wasn't wanting to be, she could admit the _real_ reason she'd been avoiding Spike all day. Last night had been a mistake, sure, but it had been a _deliberate_ one. Not like the first time when she'd been able to claim ignorance and he'd let it slide, never brought it up in their work together because it hadn't been relevant. Because it had happened _before_. Before he was her boss. Before she was his intern. Before. Now, though, everything was different.

Buffy had knowingly, _willingly_ , slept with her boss last night. Her married boss. She'd become something last night that she'd never, ever wanted to be, and why? For _what_? One more night in the bed of man she could never hope to have any kind of future with? She'd had nothing to gain last night. Nothing.

And everything to lose.

She'd stepped right over that black and white line in the sand she'd drawn, left five inch stiletto heel prints emblazoned all over her moral compass in the process. If he wanted to, Spike could hold that over her head. Could use it against her. Could use it to manipulate her. Could use it to do all the things they warn you about in sexual harassment meetings, the reasons they tell you to never get involved with your coworkers.

Or worse.

He wouldn't hold it over her, he'd just stop respecting her. Stop seeing her as someone worthy of being taught and only start to see her as someone he could...get things from.

Her stomach did that uncomfortable, aching twisty thing again, her fingers poised, all set to delete this new message, too. Then she took a minute to think about it and realized that ignoring her boss's phone calls and text messages probably wasn't a great way to go about _keeping_ her job. Treating him like a scorned ex-lover was probably _not_ the best way to make sure he still saw her as an employee, a protégé, and nothing more.

Sighing, she opened the message and read it.

 **Spike. 7/5 12:05pm** _Coming by the office at all today, or are you going to keep hiding from me?_

Buffy bit down on her bottom lip and thought of the correct response. Something innocuous, work related. And not a lie.

 _Not hiding. Just busy._

The response came almost instantly. What, had he just been sitting, staring at his phone?

 **Spike. 7/5 12:08pm** _Busy doing what, exactly? Don't believe your boss has given you an assignment today._

Another, vague non-lie. _Working on assignments from Wednesday._

She attempted to take another bite of her scone, noticed her fingers were shaking slightly. Set the bite back down. Took a sip of her water.

Her phone buzzed.

 **Spike. 7/5 12:16pm** _I expect you in my office after lunch. We have some things we need to discuss._

Buffy bristled at that, a new wave of knots churning in her stomach at the implication she read in his words. She thought about what to say, pushed her food away from her with her free hand and began typing a response with the right. Time to try and set the boundary before it was too late.

 _I'm not discussing that with you._ She typed the words in a rush, fingers clacking over the keys angrily. Then she re-read it, thought maybe it sounded a little too harsh, panicked. Quickly added- _Not at work._

Then hit send.

 **Spike. 7/5 12:19pm** _I did mean business, luv, but if you've got other things on your mind._

She could practically hear him saying it. Hear the implicit purr in his voice, could feel the way the words would be sending a sharp tingle down her spine as clearly as if he'd just whispered them into her ear.

She crossed her legs tightly.

Frustrated with herself and with him, Buffy deleted his last message and shoved her phone down into her purse.

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 1:35pm-_**

When her desk phone rang that afternoon, she picked it up without bothering to look at the little flittering red light, or whose name it was flashing beside. She didn't need to see it to know. She'd been aptly ignoring the buzzing in her purse for the last hour or so already.

Clearing her throat she said politely, if not a little strained, "What can I do for you, Mr. Pratt?"

"You know," he said, chuckling on the other end of the line. "You really shouldn't answer the phone like that."

Forcing her voice to remain both polite and detached, casual, Buffy leaned back in her chair and asked, "No?"

"Gonna give a bloke ideas." A beat as he considered that. "Unless that's the point?"

The knots in her stomach tightened, spasming wildly at the seductive timbre his voice had just taken on. _No._ No, no, no, this was _exactly_ what she'd been afraid of. Exactly what she hadn't wanted.

Straightening in her chair, Buffy picked up her pen and began to copy the address in front of her down onto a clean envelope. "I'm sorry, sir, no," she said simply, infusing her tone with just enough edge to let him know there was a double meaning there. "I don't have that prepared for you yet."

Ignoring her attempts at keeping the conversation surfacey and work-related, Spike said, "You were supposed to come to my office once you got back." She could hear the groan of his leather chair as he shifted in it. "We have some things to chat through."

"Yes sir, I'll have it by the end of the day." She hung up the phone before he could say anything else. Of course, she immediately regretted that, but it didn't matter. Not five minutes later Spike was there, standing beside her cubicle. She felt his eyes on her, then on the task she was busying herself with. Finally, gazing evenly over Buffy's shoulder, right at the brunette seated beside her.

"Cordelia," he began stiffly, his voice somber and professional. All business. "Will you take over addressing the rest of these envelopes, as I'd asked? I need Buffy's attention on something else."

The other woman nodded, swallowing. "Oh. Sure." She glanced sideways at Buffy, looking like she was a little worried. "No problem, Mr. Pratt."

"Thanks." He grinned tightly at her, then dropped his gaze to Buffy. Setting down her pen, she turned slightly, hesitantly met his eyes. Afraid of what she might find there.

Sure enough, he looked angry. Like _, really_ angry. Lips in a tight line, eyes cold.

"Buffy," he said brusquely, "if I can see you in my office. I have some notes for you on the copy of _Hollow Hill_ 's proposal."

She stared up at him, blinking numbly. His nostrils flared. There _was_ no copy of _Hollow Hill_ 's proposal. Buffy hadn't typed up his hand written original yet.

But there was no getting out of this one. Cordelia had heard him give her an assignment, and it wasn't like she could, or should, ignore him now. Not in front of everyone. If this was that proverbial music she was turning her shoulders square into it.

So she nodded and said, "I'll be right there."

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 1:45am-_**

"Right there," she gasped, letting her head loll to the side, reaching her hands around behind her and digging the pads of her fingers more firmly into his hips.

Buffy was kneeling on his bed, tangled sheets wrapped around her knees. Spike was behind her, the sweat-sheened skin of his front pressing against her back. One strong arm wrapped tight around her waist to hold her up, hold her against him, the other tangled through her hair, assisting in pulling her head to the side.

He tilted his pelvis up in response to her gasp, just the way he had a moment ago, moving fluidly along with the undulating of her hips. "There?"

"Ye-ahh, oh _God_ , yes." She pressed her back more firmly into his chest, felt his lips brush over her neck as his rhythm picked up. "Yes, yes, don't…" She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Couldn't focus on anything except the earth shattering, mind numbing sensations he was causing, the little shudders her body involuntarily gave every time he struck that one perfect spot. Over and over and _over_ again. " _Please_ don't stop."

The world might actually end, crumble and fall apart, if he stopped.

Growling in her ear, Spike pulled her even more tightly against him. Yanked her head further to the side. "Can't. _"_ He leaned forward, pressed his lips to the back of her shoulder with a growled, _"_ _Fuck_."

Then he bit down.

 _Yes._

"I need…" she panted, gasped for air, threw her head back onto his shoulder and closed her eyes. "Spike, _please_ …"

His hand moved instantly, smoothly, sliding down her stomach until it found what it was looking for. She bucked beneath his touch, her knees threatening to buckle as he stilled his hips and his hand made expert play over her sensitive flesh. Breath hot and ragged in her ear, he told her, "I've got you."

And he did.

A moment later, her muscles contracted, her eyes flew open and she screamed. Loudly. Her legs did give out then, and she slipped out of his grasp to fall forward. Bracing her hands on the edge of the mattress, her inner muscles fluttered and pulsed again.

As soon as he felt it, he moved, blindingly quick. Pulled out, pushed her gently over onto her back, hiked her legs up around his waist and kissed her hard as he thrust back in. She cried out and arched up into him, her legs shaking as she clung to his back, her nails leaving little half-moons in his skin until she finally felt his body stiffen. With a low moan into her mouth, a last sweep of his tongue over hers, he collapsed against her.

They were both breathing heavily. Mingled pants, her blood rushing and pulse pounding in her ears the only sounds. Distantly, she could hear honking. Traffic down on the street below them.

Still connected, Buffy ran her hands from his shoulder blades down to the swell of his lower back and up again. Spike breathed into her neck, fluttering her hair, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard that Buffy could feel it where their chests were pressed together.

Finally, Spike lifted his head slightly, lips coasting over her throat as he did. "Never," he rasped into her skin, reigning ardent kisses down along her sweat slicked shoulder.

Buffy sighed, dropping her hands down to the mattress limply. "Never?"

"Never felt anythin' like this. Like you." He nuzzled her neck, sucked in a deep breath and let it out again. "Feel so _bloody_ good, taste so sweet…" he kissed up to her ear, whispered, "Drive me mad, you do."

Oh, _tingle_. Limp, satiated, the corners of Buffy's lips turned up and she let her eyes flutter shut. "I'm not sweet," she murmured, more for something to say, to fill the silence, than for any other reason. Enjoying the feel of his lips feathering over her heated skin.

"Oh, but you are," he countered, leaving a trail of kisses back from just below her ear, over her pulsing jugular, down to her collar bone. He punctuated each word with one. "My sweet," _kiss_ "innocent," _kiss_ "little Buffy."

Her eyes flew open and immediately, she stiffened beneath him. She wasn't sure which word had hit home first. Which one it was that felt like a two gallon jug of ice water rippling down her spine. _Innocent_.

Or _my_.

Because she wasn't. She wasn't either of those things. Couldn't be considered innocent, not anymore. Not after what she'd just done.

And she wasn't his. Could _never_ be his. And the little fully body jolt his possessive words had sent skittering down her back meant she needed to get out. Now. Before she got in any deeper than she already was.

Feeling the difference in her body language, Spike sat up, braced his weight on his elbows and gazed down at her. Both his hands finding their way to her hair, brushing the damp, tangled strands away from her forehead, he frowned. Asked, "You gettin' scared again?"

It wasn't that simple.

"I'm not scared, I just...I can't believe I…" and her eyes started to burn, welled up with stinging, hot tears before she could stop them.

"Buffy?" He pulled a hand out of her hair and flattened it over her cheek. Frowning more deeply, scanning her face, maybe thinking that he'd hurt her. "What's the matter, luv?"

The answer came instantly, unbidden to the tip of her tongue _. Everything_.

Everything was the matter.

"Oh, God." She reached her hands up and covered her face with them, hiding her eyes from his.

With a sigh, Spike pushed himself up and off of her, rolling onto his side. "What can I do?" he asked, his voice soft and low.

Buffy peeked at him through her fingers. "What?"

"Somethin' is obviously botherin' you," he said simply, facing her, head propped up in his hand. "What can I do to help?"

That…was a very loaded question. One that Buffy couldn't even begin to answer. Not without giving away too much, not without risking real, true, honest to God vulnerability.

 _Leave your wife._

 _Stop being so irresistible._

 _Stop making me want you._

 _Stop making me want to do things that are going to make me hate myself._

She couldn't do that, couldn't _say_ that. Any of that. Why had she even come here? She couldn't remember now. Her legs still shaking and a pleasant ache between her thighs, skin still sheened with sweat. His and hers, mingled together.

Inside, her stomach twisted and she swallowed, hard. Then sat up. Wrapping the sheet tightly around herself, she said, "I have to go."

Spike's expression shifted instantly and he sat up, frowning. "Buffy—"

"I can let myself out." She ran a shaking hand through her tangled hair, keeping her eyes down, turning to look over the side of the bed.

"You don't have to go," he said, his voice coaxing and low. He reached for her, covered her hand with his.

She yanked it away from him as though his skin had burned her. "I really think I do."

"There's that stubborn streak," Spike murmured wryly. She ignored him, turning away and planting her feet on the floor. Behind her, she heard him shift, the sheets rustle. "Buffy, luv, it's almost 2:00 in the mornin', yeah? Just…stay." A beat as he waited for her to say something. She didn't. He sighed, tried again. "I'll even sleep on the sofa if you like. Just stay until the sun comes up. Ruddy nightmare tryin' to catch a taxi now, anyway."

As opposed to the nightmare she'd be dealing with if she stayed here the rest of the night.

"I'll take my chances," Buffy told him, slipping out of his bed and reaching for her discarded dress. She kept the sheet wrapped around her until she got the dress over her head and fastened the halter strap in place, finger brushing against the blunt bite mark he'd left on the back of her shoulder. Feeling a lot like the dirty mistress she was starting to think she was.

Spike, seemingly oblivious to the whirlwind whipping around in her head, shifted again. The mattress creaked. "I'll worry if you go now," he said gently, meaningfully. She could feel his eyes on her as she glanced around the darkened loft floor, looking for the underwear he'd torn from her body barely an hour before. "City's no place for a lady at this time of night."

 _Good, because I don't feel much like a lady right now._

Spotting it, she snatched the garment up and hurriedly stepped back into it. "I can take care of myself." She made a bee-line for the loft's spiral staircase.

He was faster than she was. Jumping from the bed and going after her, he said, "Never said you couldn't, but, _hey_ —" he grabbed her by the arm and spun her gently back around to face him, sheet wrapped loosely around his waist as he looked into her face, searched her eyes with his. "What's this really about?"

 _You and me. My mom and dad. You and your wife. The fact that I'm an adulteress home wrecker._ "Nothing."

"No, it's most certainly _not_ nothing." He squinted, narrowed his eyes and leaned a little closer to her. She watched as his eyes widened and his grip on her arm loosened. "You're crying."

She wasn't crying. Not yet, anyway. She was just…welling.

Frustrated, pulling her arm out of his grip and reaching her free hand up to wipe furiously at her eyes, to keep the tears that had sprung there from falling, she said, "No. No, I…" _Have to get out of here_. Now. _Right now._ "I need to go."

And she took off down the stairs before he could grab her again, only pausing to snap up her shoes and her clutch on her way. She stumbled toward the front door, stepping first into her right heel. Another stutter step, and then into her left.

"Buffy, please." Spike caught up to her just as her right hand closed around the door knob, reaching for her left and tugging her back toward him.

He'd thrown on a low slung pair of black sweatpants.

She let him hold her there for a moment, let him brush his thumb back and forth over the knuckles on her hand as he looked at her. He lowered his voice, furrowed his brow. "Tell me what's going on in that pretty head of yours."

Everything going on in her head could be boiled down to one ultra simple thought. One sentence. So she looked at him and told him honestly, "Coming here was a mistake."

Then she yanked her hand out of his and turned back to the door, wrenching it open, moving at a clip down the hallway. Ignoring him when he called her name one last time before disappearing into the elevator.

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 1:52pm-_**

Buffy marched into Spike's office, head high, laptop tucked under her arm. "What notes do you have for me?"

Wordlessly, he skirted around the mahogany desk and crossed the space between them, stepping around her to push his heavy wooden door closed. It shut with a slam, and he stepped back toward his desk. Turning around once he'd reached it, crossing his arms, he leaned back and said, "I was worried about you last night."

He was still angry. Lips still tight, cheeks hollowed out. The little muscle in his jaw ticked once.

Buffy stood a little straighter.

"Well, I'm here," she shifted from one foot to the other, glancing toward the bookshelf on the right side of his office. "So obviously I'm fine."

"Are you?" Spike asked, his voice very low.

She shook her head, smiling wryly as she risked looking back at him, straight in the eye. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Another loaded question, heavy with implication. She wasn't sure why she'd even asked.

"You tell me." He unfolded his arms and pressed his palms down to the desk on either side of his hips. "You're the one's been avoidin' me like the bloody plague all day."

And with very, _very_ good reason apparently.

Buffy tried to keep her facial expression impassive. "I haven't been… _avoiding_ you. I've just been working." She shook her head, reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear nervously. "Busy."

"Avoiding," he reiterated flatly, one eyebrow raised.

Buffy clenched her jaw, narrowed her eyes. Fine. If he wanted to play that game, she'd play.

"Maybe I _have_ been avoiding you," she snapped. "So sorry. It isn't like I know what to say or how to deal." She paused to breathe in through her nose, exhaled slowly. "I don't know exactly how to navigate this."

Spike pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, bit down on it, nodded. But not like he understood. Like he thought she was being ridiculous. "Could've just tried, oh, I dunno," he paused for effect, then bit out sharply, " _talking_ to me."

Right. Because _that_ always seems to go so well.

"There isn't anything to talk about," she said dismissively.

He regarded her with a ticking jaw, hollowed cheeks. Both eyebrows shot sky high.

"Fine," Buffy stepped further into the room, crossing to the desk and setting her laptop down in her spot with a smack. Turned to face her boss, hands on hips. "Why don't you tell me why you can't get yourself a divorce, and I'll tell you what's going on with me."

That had him narrowing his eyes on her. Nostrils flaring, bitterly amused. "Touché, luv," he murmured, lips curving into a smirk.

Pushing off his desk, he took a deliberate step toward her. Eyes fanning down over her body, back up to her face. And Buffy panicked instantly, stepping back, putting her hands out in front of her as if to ward him off.

"Do you _actually_ have work for me," she began, maybe a little _too_ sarcastically, "or did you just call me in here to hold last night over my head?"

Spike looked confused, skidded to a stop. Dropped his gaze down to her hands. "What?" He blinked up at her, shaking his head. "Buffy, no. I would nev…" he trailed off and his eyes widened, understanding. He took another step toward her. Angry again. "Bloody hell, is _that_ what you were thinking? Why you left in such a tizzy last night, why you've been hidin' out all day?" He inched closer to her and dropped his voice to a low growl. "You think I'd use what happened between us to _manipulate_ you?"

Something in his voice, the way he was speaking to her. Like her even thinking that, the fact that the thought had even _crossed_ her mind, was so insulting to him that he could barely stomach saying the words out loud.

Buffy felt her cheeks flush hot as she stared him down. "When have you ever given me a reason to think you wouldn't," she said on a sigh, folding her arms tightly over her chest.

Which was apparently the very wrongest of wrong things to say. Because Spike's eyes blazed, flashing heatedly. "Maybe every time over the last sodding _month_ when I could have and didn't?"

Buffy froze, blinked.

Oh. Right. That was...very true.

Stunned silent, she dropped her hands down to her sides, chastened.

"Buffy," he began slowly, exhaling through his nose. He was still angry. Fuming. Furious. Buffy could tell by the way his jaw clenched repeatedly. "I'm your boss. _Here_ , I'm your boss." He began to approach her slowly, voice low, rumbling. "I'm here to teach you. _Want_ to teach you. I meant what I said, that you're someone worth investing in. Smart, talented. Bloody brilliant instincts. And everythin' you'll get workin' here, workin' for me? You'll earn through your job performance and your job performance _alone_." He stepped into her personal space and looked down at her purposefully, eyes intent on her face as he lowered his voice further still until it was little more than a silky purr. "I will never, ever, hold anythin' that we do together privately over your head in a professional capacity." A beat, his eyes widening meaningfully. " _Never_."

Buffy swallowed. Hard. Because the way he was looking at her now...like he wanted to lambast her for being so disrespectful while simultaneously wanting to pick her up and ravage her on top of his desk. It was the fact that he wasn't doing that, wasn't yanking her against him and sucking her tongue into his mouth, that ultimately made her believe him.

Still, she felt the need to correct him. Quietly, voice small, she said, "Did."

Spike blinked, took a step back. "Huh?"

"Anything that we _did_ together, you mean." She swallowed again, her eyes glued to his. Unable to look away from him. Held in his thrall the same way she had been last night. "Past tense."

He inhaled deeply through his nose, pursed his lips.

"Right," he said slowly, leaning back away from her. "Did. Last night included." He turned his back on her then, reaching a hand down to his desk, trailing his fingertips over it as he walked toward his book shelf. "And while we're on the topic of last night..." He glanced over his shoulder at her, eyes narrowed once more. "Why didn't you answer me?"

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 2:49am-_**

When Buffy reached her apartment, Faith wasn't home. She locked the door behind her and headed straight for her bedroom. Slamming the door shut behind her, she threw her clutch onto her bed, kicked off Faith's heels, turned her attention to her halter strap. Her fingers shook slightly as she managed to get the clasp undone and hurriedly removed the blue cocktail dress, tossing it violently into the far corner of her bedroom. Not bothering to maneuver over to her dresser for a sleeping shirt, too exhausted, feeling too raw and too exposed as it was, she just crawled weakly into her bed wearing only her underwear. Pulled her heavy comforter up around her shivering frame. Tears still in her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach, she reached into her purse and pulled her phone out.

The screen was blinking. Four new messages.

Hand shaking slightly, she clicked the button and began scrolling through them. Sniffled. Wiped a hand beneath her eye and brought back streaked mascara.

The first message was from Dawn. The second, Angel.

 **Dawn. 7/5 11:55pm** _Happy 4th! Hope you had a blast at your party. Call me tomorrow, I wanna hear all about it._

 **Angel. 7/5 12:54am** _Happy 4th of July, Buffy. Haven't heard from you in a few days. Hope everything's okay._

She immediately deleted that.

And then the last two, both from Spike.

 **Spike. 7/5 2:15am** _I'm sorry._

Buffy swallowed against the lump in the back of her throat. Clicked over to the next message, read it through, closed her eyes.

 **Spike. 7/5 2:21am** _At least let me know you got home alright._

Buffy opened her eyes again. Re-read his messages one last time. Bit down on her bottom lip, thumb hovering over the delete button for just a moment. Then it shifted to reply, pressed down.

She started typing.

 _It's fine. Made it home._

Then she deleted the first two words. Because it wasn't.

 _Made it home._

Buffy's thumb hovered over the Send button for a long, extended second. And then she deleted the draft, darkened the screen of her phone, tossed it away from her. Rolling over onto her side, she buried her face in her pillow.

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 2:10pm-_**

Buffy stared at him, eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. Incredulous, she asked, "You called me in here to scold me for not responding to your text last night?"

He scoffed, glanced away from her. "Not _scoldin'_ you—"

"Then what?" she asked, exasperated, wanting to get with the big talking and get it all over with. So she could start to move on. Forget anything ever happened.

Quit, if need be.

Spike sighed, turning back around to face her. His eyes were soft on hers, brow slightly furrowed. "Told you before, I was worried."

"Well, you don't need to worry about me," Buffy told him flatly. Then, determined to drive home that particular point, she added, "You said it yourself, Spike. You're my _boss_ , not my boyfriend."

His eyes flashed as she threw his own words back in his face, his expression darkening. "So that means I can't be concerned over your welfare?"

"It means you don't get to be angry if I don't respond to a non-work related text message."

Spike snorted, chuckling humorlessly. "Not about the bloody text message, pet, " he said, voice low as he pushed away from his desk and approached her again.

"What then?" Buffy challenged him defiantly, not moving away from him as he stepped into her space once more. She glowered up at him, eye contact holding. "That I left?"

He got quiet at that. Visibly softened. Stepped just a hare away from her, dug his hands into his pockets and glanced down at the rug. "I asked you not to."

Just the slightest bit thrown by his reaction, Buffy felt herself soften, too. Wanting suddenly, inexplicably, to reach for him, she forced herself to stand still. Held her ground. "I _had_ to. You know that. I couldn't have stayed even _if_ I'd wanted to." Which had been the whole point. She had wanted to, and that was why, in the end, she'd left.

Sighing, Buffy reached up and ran a hand through her hair. Closed her eyes, opened them again and tired to think about what to say next, how to say it. "Look, last night…"

"Changed everything," he supplied for her, voice soft as his eyes shot back up to hers. Crystal clear, gleaming in the sunlight. Captivating. Convincing.

He made it so hard for her to want to argue with him when he looked at her like that. The same way he'd looked at her last night, in his bed, fingers entwined with hers. It made her want to take him in her arms, made her feel like she needed to be close to him.

But giving into that feeling, that look. That's what had gotten her in this mess in the first place. She couldn't, wouldn't let it happen again.

Even if a small part of her was thinking he was right.

"No," Buffy breathed, beseeching him with her eyes. _Let it go._ "It didn't."

 _Please, let it go._

He wouldn't.

"Did for me," Spike told her gently. Then he moved again, invaded her space. "And I _know_ you felt somethin'."

Something? Try everything. The range of emotions Buffy had felt the night before was staggering to her. Lust, rage, guilt, desire. Loathing. Passion. And heat. Always heat, whether it was simmering on low or threatening to boil over.

Yes, she'd felt something last night. Felt a lot of somethings. Felt what it was he was talking about. Knowing that her decision to go to him, to _stay_ with him, to let him demand things from her, to not let her hide from him…she'd made one no good, horrible, bad decision after another. And he was right. Those decisions had changed everything.

But she wasn't in any way ready to admit that even to herself, and she sure as hell wasn't about to admit it to _him_.

"Nothing's changed," Buffy told him steadily, forcing her voice out cool and even. Casual. Dismissive. "You're still you and I'm still me. I'm your employee and you're my boss. That's _all_." And she hated it, hated that the next three words felt like a lie even as they left her lips. "There's nothing else."

Starting to get annoyed, frustrated with her denying him, Spike tilted his head back. Looked down at her through his lashes, cocked his head to the side and said smugly, "Not what you said last night."

No, it wasn't. But last night was last night, and this was now.

"Forget about last night," she said now, hardening her voice again.

"Won't," he told her evenly, defiantly. And then his lips curved lightly at the corners in a manner Buffy would only describe as devilish as he purred, "Can't."

Another flash, an image in her mind's eye. Those same words whispered heatedly into her ear, against her skin. His arm around her waist.

He'd done it on purpose. She knew he had, could tell by the smug smile on his face. And as desperately as she would have liked _not_ to have reacted to him, she couldn't help it. Involuntarily, she shuddered. Stepped away from him, squeezed her legs together.

Covering, she said quickly, angrily, "What happened last night was a mistake. Of the monumental variety." She glared at him, eyes narrowed. "I should never have gone there in the first place."

Spike nodded his head in mock agreement as she spoke, pursing full lips thoughtfully. "And yet you came anyway." He paused, leered at her seductively and continued, "More than once, if I'm rememberin' correctly. "

Buffy gaped at him. The _nerve_. "Oh my _God_."

Spike glanced down at his hand, made a show of inspecting one of his neatly trimmed fingernails. "Heard that a few times, too."

Eyes widening, she let her mouth fall open. Shook her head. "Did you not _just_ tell me you weren't going to do this?"

Spike looked affronted by the stinging accusation in her voice. Arching his scarred brow, he considered her coolly. "Told you I'd never hold it over your head—" And Buffy jumped on that, jabbing a finger at him and starting to accuse him again, but he stopped her, raising his voice to cover hers. "In a _professional_ capacity."

He obviously had very different ideas of what constituted the word _professional_.

Squaring her shoulders, raising her brows, she asked, "See us, here? In your _office_?" She crossed her arms. "This is what most people would consider a 'professional capacity'."

"And right now we're having a _personal_ conversation."

Well, wasn't _that_ convenient. "So you can just make up the rules to suit your needs, is that it?"

He shrugged. "I _am_ the boss."

At her comically wide eyes, he relented, rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and groaned. "Oh, relax, will you? I'm joking." A beat, another slow smirk. "Well, half joking anyway." Buffy watched as he twisted around and sat down on his desk, expression growing serious again. He considered her, let his eyes trail over her face, lowered his voice. "I meant what I said, pet. You never have to worry about me abusing my authority over your job, good or bad." He reached a hand out, pressed his pointer and index fingers down into the mahogany desktop. "Here, I'm just your boss."

Buffy stared at him, not sure what to say to that. His words struck her as odd, sending a weird mix of emotions swirling through her gut. On the one hand, they were actually making her feel better about whatever fears she'd had that he'd stop respecting her professionally, that he'd stop wanting to teach her about the industry. On the other hand, it was his choice of key words that seemed to be sending her for a loop.

 _"_ _I_ am _the boss."_

 _"_ _I'm joking. Well, half joking, anyway."_

 _"_ _Here, I'm just your boss."_

Specifically that last one.

"Why do you keep _saying_ it like that?" Buffy asked him, exasperated. Confused. Completely and thoroughly thrown. " _Here_ ," she emphasized the word, put it in air quotes. "Like its different if we're somewhere else."

Spike blinked at her, brow furrowed. Looking like he was perplexed by her confusion. Simply, he said, "Because it is."

She shook her head, closed her eyes and sighed. "No it's _not_."

"It is," he insisted again, and Buffy opened her eyes. He was watching her through his lashes, letting them flutter over his angled cheeks. "Here," he gestured with a sweep of his arm, "I'm William Pratt, director of editorial. Mentor. Boss."

" _Married_ ," she murmured under her breath, sinking down onto the edge of the leather chair and folding her hands in her lap.

Spike ignored her. "And when we're not here, I'm—"

" _Still_ married," she told him pointedly, exhaling another sigh, not looking at him. There was nothing he could say to her, nothing he could do to her, nothing he could offer. Nothing that would make her change her mind about that one unequivocal fact. Nothing that would change her mind about this thing between them, whatever it was, being all with the majorly _over._

And then he pushed off his desk and stepped in front of her, hooked his index finger gently beneath her chin and raised her eyes to his. Whispered, "I'm anybody you want me to be."

Except maybe that.

 _God._

His finger was soft and gentle beneath her chin, and she gazed up at him as he slid it down. He held her in thrall as he brushed the back of his knuckle along the underside of her jawline. For a moment, she let him. Then she remembered.

 _Bad touching._

"Spike, _stop_ it," she snapped at him, reaching her hand up to bat his violently away. "No more. We agreed last night was the last time."

Brows drawing together, he cocked his head to the side. "Did we?" He mused, reaching a hand up to rub his chin thoughtfully. "Funny. I remember hearin' _you_ say that." He dropped his hand and leveled her with a sizzling gaze. "What I'm a touch fuzzy on is the part where I agreed."

Incensed, any measure of patience she might have had left snapping, Buffy put her hands on the chair's armrest and shoved herself to her feet again. Unfortunately, instead of making her feel stronger, more in control, it ended up doing little more than bringing her nose to nose with Spike. Refusing to let him know he was rattling her, she squared her shoulders again.

"No more of this. Do you hear me? _This_ ," she gestured emphatically between them, letting her hand smack into his chest once, "goes away. Whether we're _here_ or not. Last night was…we had our one more time. That's all you asked for."

Spike's eyes sparked. "All _I_ asked for was a kiss," he reminded her, and she grit her teeth. His unspoken words hanging in the air between them.

 _You're the one that deepened the kiss. You're the one who made that move._

Buffy could hear it in her head, as plainly as if he'd spoken out loud. It was written all over his face. The set of his lips, the fierce look in his eyes as he smoldered at her. Like this whole thing was on her now. Like he hadn't known _exactly_ what he was doing. Like he knew what she really wanted and she couldn't hide it from him.

Like he knew it was only a matter of time before she made another move.

"We had our one more time," she said again, speaking slowly. Drawing the words out through clenched teeth for emphasis. "And it was…"

"Bloody magnificent," he supplied unhelpfully. Smugly. Tilted his chin back to consider her through heavy lidded eyes. "Earth shattering. Mind blow—"

"Okay _fine_ ," she interrupted him in a rush, a little too loudly as she attempted to shut him up. He widened his eyes, clearly amused as she cleared her throat. Continued to speak, voice low. "It…might have been…that." _All that and a whole hell of a lot more._ "But it doesn't matter now. We're done. Period." She resisted the urge to stamp her foot for good measure. "End of story."

Spike didn't say anything for a long moment. Just gazed at her, eyes sparkling, crinkling a little at the corners. Finally, he stood up and walked past her, moved back around to his rightful side of the desk and pulled his big leather wing back out. Wordlessly, he slid into it. Picked up the lined pages of handwritten notes in front of him, shuffled them, stacked them neatly in front of himself.

Then he looked up, dropped his chin into his hand and said, "You know, that's adorable."

Whiplash. He was going to give it to her.

And not at all in the pleasant way.

"What is?" Buffy asked, genuinely wondering.

Spike pulled his chin out of his hand, turned his eyes down to his work. Plucking a pen out of his collection, he shifted his eyes back up to her briefly, said casually, "That you think it'll be that easy."

Understanding, she blinked, then glowered at him. "I'm making it that easy."

God, he was so arrogant it was _insane_.

Well warranted, but insane.

"Right." With a wry smile, a low, rumbling chuckle, Spike placed his pen at the top of a fresh sheet of lined paper and began to write. "Haven't been thinkin' about it, then?" He asked lightly, like he was talking about something as innocuous as the weather. "Haven't pictured yourself, all soaked and breathless, quivering on the bed beneath me." He brought the tip of his pen to his lip and re-read what he'd just written, placed it back on the page, continued. "Haven't squeezed your thighs together and tried not to think about how it felt to have me between them."

His eyes flicked up to hers, luminous beneath fluttering, flirtatious lashes.

Buffy held his gaze, refused to let him intimidate her. Standing just a little straighter she said evenly, "No."

"No?" Spike pressed, turning his eyes back to his work. Sounding like he didn't believe her. Not even a little bit.

"No," she repeated, more firmly this time. Then, for good measure, "And if you ask me another question like that I'll file a formal complaint with HR."

Spike, utterly unfazed by her threat, simply smirked down at the paper his pen was working over. "I love it when you talk dirty."

He was unbelievable. "You can be as suggestive as you want," she told him now, throwing her arms out in defeat. "I don't care. Nothing you say is going to change my mind."

"Change your mind about what, luv?" he asked casually, his eyes still down. Brow furrowed, like he was focused entirely on the task before him. Like he hadn't just made several explicit sexual references to her in just the last three minutes.

Incensed, she whisper-yelled, "I'm not sleeping with you again!"

That had him pausing, left hand stilling over his notes. Spike's eyes turned slowly up to hers, that damn scarred eyebrow arching high. "Don't recall sayin' anything about you sleeping with me again."

But he _had_. She knew he had. All that talk about last night, what had happened. Him asking her if she'd been thinking about it, how it was so naïve of her to think it would be easy for her to refuse him. To say it was just over and have it be. He'd _totally_ said it. Buffy wracked her brain for his words, the exact words. She knew he'd said it.

Hadn't he?

"It was…" she stammered, trailed off. "I mean, you insinuated…you…" For the love of God, she needed to stop. Just stop. Stop while she was ahead. Or at least not so far behind that she'd get herself lapped. Sighing, shaking her head, she asked, "Do you have any actual work for me to do today?"

 _Because if not, I have plans to jump head first into this giant hole I've just dug myself and die. Thanks._

She was a little surprised when he nodded, set his pen down and asked curtly, his voice and expression shifting to impassive, suddenly all business, "Did you get any of those sales projections back yet?"

"Uh," she blinked at him, thrown once more, then nodded once, "yeah." Buffy moved to sit down at her chair, scooted it up to her laptop. Lifting the top, pressing the power button, she said, "I got a couple of them back this morning." Glanced at him over the top of the screen. "What do you want me to do with them?"

"Print what you have out for me, would you?" Spike scribbled a note at the top of the page of notes he'd just finished, circled it with a flourish. "I need to add those numbers into this before I can hand it over to you to type up. Oh, and every time you push me away," he glanced at her, keeping his voice that same steady, business-like flat, "it only makes me want you more."

Buffy reached her hand up and pulled down her computer screen, snapping it shut again. "That's it," she said, pushing herself to her feet.

He watched her, eyes widening. Like he was genuinely surprised that something he'd said had set her off. "What is?" he asked, brow furrowing.

Picking up her computer, sliding it safely under her arm once more, she stared him down. "Spike, I can't do this. Not if you're going to keep being all…" She inhaled a deep breath, rubbed her lips together, exhaled. "I just _can't_."

She wasn't even sure what it was she was referring to. What it was she just _couldn't._ If it was that she couldn't work for him if he continued to tell her things like it. If it was just that she wouldn't be able to deal. Or if it was that she was afraid she couldn't resist him. She wasn't even sure what it was she was threatening. To quit, maybe. Or…she didn't know. She just felt like it needed to be said, so she said it.

And maybe the reason why didn't matter.

Tearing her gaze from Spike's, from the suddenly panicky look that was flooding his eyes, Buffy turned on her heel and fled his office. She didn't wait for him to say anything, just pulled the door open the same way she had last night, motoring down the hallway, fresh tears in her eyes.

He didn't try and stop her as she left, and didn't call her back into his office for the rest of the day.

 ** _-Friday, July 5th. 7:35pm-_**

Buffy stayed and worked late.

As much as she'd enjoyed helping Cordelia out with her envelopes, as much as she'd been grateful for the keep-Buffy's-brain-busy distraction, the little side project had put her majorly behind. Spike might not have given her any specific assignments for the day, but she'd still had more than enough work to catch up on. Things she hadn't finished Wednesday, missed working on during her day off Thursday and what she'd avoided working on for most of the day.

By the time she'd finished up everything she'd needed to going into the weekend, it was already close to 7:30, and pretty much everyone else had gone home.

Buffy wasn't in the mood to go home, though. Not yet.

She reached into her purse as she made her way over to the elevator bank, pulled out her cell phone. Began dialing Faith's cell number. She was fairly certain tonight was trashy Irish dive bar night, but couldn't quite remember.

She'd just hit call, let her shoulders sag against the back wall of the elevator and pressed the phone up to her ear just as the doors began to close.

And then a hand shot out, stopping them. Buffy watched blankly as the doors opened up again, Spike standing there in front of her. Hardly looking at her, he hopped inside, pressed the _door close_ button a couple times. Let them to begin to shut before pressing for the Lobby, he waited until the elevator was moving, in between floors. Then leaned forward and pushed his thumb hard into the red emergency stop button.

The elevator shook, shuddering to a rough stop, making Buffy stumble slightly in her heels.

"Spike!" Buffy yanked her phone away from her ear, gawping at him. "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Ignoring her outburst, he stepped toward her. "In the interest of full disclosure," he began slowly, still keeping a respectful distance between their bodies. "I can't pretend I'll be able to sit across from you and not think about it, you, that way." Spike took a deep, steadying breath, took a very small step closer to her, and lowered his voice. "Can't lie and say I won't be having all sorts of lurid fantasies runnin' through my head about bending you over my desk and havin' my wicked way with you."

 _Oh._

Buffy inhaled sharply. Couldn't help it. The words he was saying, the picture they painted. It had her tingling all over, sent sparks shooting across her skin, down her back. Gave her the very definitive answer of just what exactly she'd meant when she'd told Spike earlier that she just _couldn't_ with him. But he was still talking, still saying something she assumed was probably relatively important. She blinked, lashes fluttering, tried to refocus. His lips were moving, vice still smooth and low.

"...last night really did change things for me. But I _do_ know what you were saying earlier, and I _did_ hear you." Another tentative step toward her. "Can't promise I won't have any...less than workplace appropriate thoughts about you, and, much as I'd like to, I can't promise to always keep 'em to myself." He paused then, slowing down to say the next part. "But I _can_ promise I won't act on them." Searching her eyes earnestly for a moment, he finally asked, "Alright?"

Alright? Was it? Her brain was saying yes but her body...well, it was doing that achy, throbbing thing it had been doing off and on all day.

She should say yes. She should say good. She should say _something._ l

"You won't act on them," she repeated in an equally low voice. Not a question, just sort of a flat, disbelieving statement. After all the things he'd said to her, both last night and earlier that afternoon, she was having a hard time wrapping her head around that. That he'd just...give up so easily. And even though it was what she'd wanted, what she'd needed from him, she found herself feeling just the slightest bit disappointed.

An emotion she quickly shoved down, filed away under _lusty wrong_ , and refocused her attention on what he was saying.

"I won't," he promised ardently. A beat passed, and he pressed into the emergency stop button. Waited for the doors to open again. Then, in that same ultra serious, incredibly earnest voice, he looked at her and said, "Not until you ask me to."

And he was gone, stepping lithely out of the elevator and moving at a brisk pace back across the darkened main office space, down the hall, and finally disappearing around the corner before she had a chance to say a word. Before she could really even process what had just happened.

Buffy stood silently, staring after him. Stunned, head spinning and possibly more confused than ever. Her phone, still clutching in her hand, vibrated loudly, making her jump. Faith was calling back.

Buffy ignored the call, put her phone back in her purse. Waited for the elevator doors to close again before she exhaled and whispered, "I won't."

It was as much a promise to herself as it was an answer to him.


	9. Chapter 9

**_-Friday, July 12th. 5:48pm-_**

A week.

A full week had gone by, and Spike had done little more than bat his stupidly long eyelashes at her. He hadn't breathed a word about the 4th of July, about his father's party, about the night she'd spent with him at his condo. He hadn't made any overt suggestions, hadn't asked her any HR-nightmare level questions. A full week, and William "Spike" Pratt hadn't been even mildly evocative. Sure, there'd been the odd innuendo or two a day, but still nothing directly in reference to Buffy, or in reference to them together.

Which in turn meant a week had gone by, and Buffy was actually beginning to think that he'd meant it, what he'd told her in the elevator. That he was going to let this whole thing go, to not pursue her. At least not until she decided to come to him.

Which she _so_ wasn't going to do.

In fact, Buffy had spent her weekend holed up at home, talking in vague hypotheticals to both Faith and Dawn and trying to come up with endless solutions as to how she would make sure that never happened. Most of them included further attempts at avoiding him all together, which weren't exactly viable, but…she'd make _something_ work.

Even with her fresh resolve fully in place, she'd been nervous when she'd arrived at work on Monday morning. Not sure what to expect, certain that things between she and Spike would be awkward at the very least, it been a relief to her to find a full day's worth of work on her agenda, and Spike, nowhere to be found. According to Cordelia, he'd be out all day in meetings. It had been an even greater relief when Tuesday had rolled around and Buffy was scheduled in her own set of "meetings" all day— some sort of intern feedback day, where each department took on another's interns at different parts of the day to make sure they were all getting the full publishing house "experience".

And it had been the biggest relief of all when, on Wednesday morning, Buffy found herself seated in her spot at his desk and the first words out of Spike's mouth were about work. They weren't salacious or seductive, nor were they curt and dismissive. They were just…flat. Simple, business-like. As though everything that had happened between them on the 4th of July had never occurred, and to her surprise, they'd slipped back more easily than she would have guessed into the roles they'd been playing before that night. They worked, bickered lightly over whatever differences in opinion they had, Spike made sure he took the time needed to properly explain different elements of the proposal writing process to her, and generally everything seemed to have been smoothed over.

Of course, just because Spike wasn't _saying_ anything inappropriate to her didn't mean he wasn't _thinking_ about it. He'd told her as much, of course. That night in the elevator, that he couldn't promise her not to have "less than work appropriate" thoughts about her. She'd known to expect it. Somehow, it still managed to catch her off guard every time she caught him shamelessly staring at her.

And not just staring at her, but smoldering at her. Long, lusty gazes, his nostrils flaring, lips pursed. Not touching her, _never_ touching her, but looking at her with such unchecked desire at times that he might as well have reached out and ran his hand up her thigh. To his credit, he kept whatever it was he was thinking in these moments to himself. But Buffy knew. Could feel it happening, even when she chose to consciously keep her eyes down and away from his, which was more often than not.

And when she would look away, when she'd hurriedly duck her head to hide from the intensity of his stare, every once in a while, she'd catch his lips quirking at some unspoken thought.

He wasn't smirking now, though. Wasn't even looking at her. He was focused on his work, shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk, his favorite red pen wedged firmly up behind his ear. "We gonna be ready for Tuesday, then?"

Tuesday was his big publishing board meeting, where he was making the final proposal on why Pratt should purchase _Hollow Hill_. It was all they'd been working on for the past three days, their looming Tuesday deadline hanging over their heads. Spike had been majorly stressed, and Buffy could tell, which she'd figured was largely part of the reason he'd been behaving himself so well.

Now, Buffy nodded in response to his question and typed the last of his initial revisions into her word document, scanning it once more before sending it to the printer. "Should be, once I get your final revisions on this."

Spike looked up from the papers in his hand just as she looked up from her computer screen. Their gazes locked briefly, his sparking slightly, and she hastily stood and turned to cross to the far corner of the room.

"Final revisions" he murmured from behind her, his voice low. Distracted. "Right."

Buffy could feel his eyes on her back as she waited at his printer, then plucked the proposal out of the printing tray. She shuffled the pages, made sure they were in the correct order, then turned back to his desk. Spike's gaze was still on her, but not on her face. They were slightly down, focused somewhere between her bellybutton and her knees, right around where the fabric of her dress curved over her hips.

Buffy's cheeks grew hot.

"Right," she said purposefully, feeling her lips curving up just a tad. She reached over his desk and stuck the proposal directly into his line of sight, blocking his view of her body.

Blinking, Spike shifted back in his chair and shook his head. Whatever little lusty spell he'd been under seemingly broken, his eyes shot up to her face. He actually had the decency to look a little sheepish.

"Right." He said it like he hadn't already said it once before. "I'll have those for you Monday mornin'." He reached up and took the document from her, letting his thumb brush across the back of her hand for a fraction of a second before asking casually, "You're sittin' in on that meeting, yeah?"

It was Buffy's turn to blink. In all the time they'd spent working up the proposal for the meeting, never once had she considered that he'd actually want her to be in it.

"I…uh." She paused, frowning. "I mean…do you want me to?"

Spike appraised her with a small smirk, leaning back in his chair. "Why wouldn't I?"

"You didn't have me sit in on the editorial one," she explained, watching his face carefully. Noting the way his eyes drifted to her mouth, then to her throat. Followed the slight V of her neckline, then back up again to her eyes. His gaze sparked. Buffy swallowed and continued with a low, "I just wasn't sure."

Spike nodded thoughtfully, then leaned forward. "I'd like you to be at this one," he said simply. "Give you a chance to see how things are done. It'll be good for you."

Buffy continued to stare at him, bemused. Not having missed the subtle note of innuendo in his words, the way he tilted his head to run his eyes over her face so decisively.

"Okay, sure," she turned back to her computer screen, feigning being busy. Suddenly unable to hold eye contact with him. "Is there anything special I should do to prepare?"

Spike sighed. Whether because she was clearly running scared again or because he was just thinking about what she'd asked, Buffy wasn't sure.

"Nobody'll be askin' you much of anything, I'd wager, but if you'd like to you can review the list of the blokes who'll be there." He shifted, turning toward the computer that sat on the right hand side of his desk. He rarely ever used it, save for the occasional e-mail correspondence, and Buffy had actually joked more than once that she didn't know why he even bothered with that when he could just hand write letters instead. She glanced up from her laptop as he reached for the mouse and woke the screen up. "You should have it in your inbox already. I told Cassie to copy you on all scheduling e-mails regarding _Hollow Hill_." He moved the mouse, double clicked on something, kept his eyes glued to the screen in front of him and said, "You look bloody stunning in green."

Buffy sighed, let her shoulders sag forward. She glanced down into her lap, at the emerald green fabric covering it. "Spike."

"What?" He asked in response, casting her a sidelong glance. Shrugged. "It's a nice dress. That's innocent enough."

He turned his eyes back to the computer.

She raised her brows.

"Coming from you?" _And in your bedroom voice?_ "Nothing seems innocent."

That had him chuckling. Short and low, the sound warm. Then he paused, thought about it, and Buffy watched as he nodded his head. "Well, yeah. Maybe you're right." His eyes to hers again. "But you do."

She felt her lips tuggung upward before she could stop them, the slightest hint of a blush coloring her cheeks. She'd known he was staring at her before, had caught him in the middle of it. Not that he'd been trying to hide it from her to begin with, but… _still_. She'd known. But knowing it in her head and hearing him say it…two different things. And having him say it for the first time, out right, since their conversation the week before was giving her all sorts of tingly, goose-bumpy flashbacks. The words he'd whispered in her ear, the feel of his hands gliding over her skin. The heated praises and muffled groans and the way that they'd just… _fit_. Oh, she was thinking about it now. A week had gone by and she was actively thinking about it. Remembering it. _Wanting_ it. Wanting him to keep looking at her the way he had been a few moments ago.

Which was a no. A big, huge, messy pile of _no_.

So Buffy straightened in her chair, cleared her throat and turned her attention back to her inbox. "You need to forward me Cassie's e-mail," she said, making her voice flat. She scanned through her received mail again, one last time, shook her head. "I don't have it. I-what?"

She'd looked up just in time to catch him staring at her again. Eyes glued to the curve of her collar bone, pupils just a little more dilated than they'd been. Buffy's skin got hot again.

But Spike just shook his head, smirking at her as he said breezily, "Nothing." Turned back to his computer. "Let me just…pull that e-mail up. Might take me a minute—oh, bloody _hell_ ," He growled, brow furrowing as he appeared to be having trouble with something on the screen. He reached a hand up, smacking his palm flat against the side of his desktop. "I hate this sodding thing."

"So you've told me," Buffy quipped, and his smirking lips and flashing eyes met hers sidelong again. She dropped her hands down to her lap. "Okay, seriously," the words came out on a strange noise, half exasperated sigh and half too-close-to-flirtatious giggle. " _What_?"

"Nothing," Spike insisted, though this time it didn't sound casual at all. There was something in that word, in the way he managed to say it. All husky purr and arched brows. _Nothing_. It came out sounding like an invitation to straddle him on his leather wingback.

Buffy sat back, reflexively crossing her legs and her arms simultaneously. As though blocking his view from her body and the green dress that covered it would do anything to stem whatever it was he was so obviously thinking. She appraised him with her own arched brow, hazarded pulling one arm away from her chest to point at him. " _You_ have dirty thought having face."

"That's because I'm havin' dirty thoughts," he told her simply, not looking the least bit sheepish or sorry. Rather, he turned and leaned toward her, placing his elbows on the desk and steepling his hands. "Mostly involving peeling that dress off you with my teeth." He paused, watched her cheeks flood with color. Pleased, he tilted his head to the side and let his eyes move slowly down over the fabric of said dress, tongue touching the roof of his mouth. "Or _maybe_ just bunching it up round your thighs and settin' you down right where that computer of yours is."

His lashes fanned up again, and Buffy quivered.

Seized by another unbidden full body throb, she hoped he wouldn't notice. "That was inappropriate," she told him. Less of an accusation and more of an observation. Not as outraged as she would have liked it to be.

"Mmm, it was," he agreed, voice low. Utterly unapologetic. "Very inappropriate."

"You're supposed to be keeping those thoughts to yourself," she reminded him, her voice coming out tremulous and soft.

Looking smug, Spike nodded. "Told you I'd _try_ and keep 'em to myself." His eyes were riveted to hers. Searching them, looking for something. Permission maybe. Or an unspoken request. Anything that would give him the knowledge he needed, the ammunition to press forward. "I tried."

Sucking in a deep breath, squeezing her legs more tightly together, Buffy dropped her eyes to his left hand. His gold ring. Let the deep breath out through pursed lips.

Then she looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Try harder."

 ** _-Friday, July 12th. 8:45pm-_**

When Buffy had arrived at Faith's bar around 7:00 o'clock that night, she'd been surprised to find it so busy.

When her roommate had initially called to ask her to come by, Buffy had said no. Then quickly rethought that no when Spike had asked her if she had any big plans for the evening.

She'd also been surprised, but a little more pleasantly, to find that there was live music being played. Or rather, according to the chalk covered sign out front, there was always live music being played on Friday nights. The evening's entertainment, a semi-country crooner by the name of Lindsey McDonald, had been situated in a far corner of the pub, strumming his guitar and singing a low, acoustic version of "Mrs. Robinson" when she'd arrived. Having felt the need for a drink and a little girl time after her afternoon conversation with Spike, Buffy had scarcely noticed anything about the man as she'd headed straight for the bar. But Faith had been busy tending behind said bar, so Buffy had sat, taken the proffered bottle of light beer from her, and sat back to listen to the music.

He had a nice voice, the Lindsey guy, and the soft twang of his acoustic guitar was perfect for background noise. Far from the type of music she'd expected to hear at the Faith-described "dive bar", Buffy found that the atmosphere the live entertainment helped create was actually relaxing. The pub itself was paneled in dark wood, a long mirror propped behind the bar shelves, round pendant lights above it and various wooden tables with red cushioned spindle chairs and little flickering candles dotted throughout the space. With the haze of cigar smoke, low buzz of chatter from the other pub's patrons and the soft croon of Lindsey's voice…it was a dive, sure, but it was also super cozy.

So much so that Buffy had found herself easily finishing her first beer and asking Faith for another within twenty minutes.

Throughout the evening, she'd hardly given the pub's entertainment a second thought since noting he had a pleasant enough voice. She'd chatted with Faith whenever she'd had a spare minute, listened, relaxed, sipped at her beer. After a particularly inventive rendition of "Carry On My Wayward Son", though, Buffy had seen fit in the spur of the moment to put her fingers in her mouth and give him a high, appreciative whistle. He'd glanced her way, grinned, raised his bottle to her in salute and taken a drink. She'd expected that to be the extent of their interaction, but throughout the rest of his set, his eyes had kept wandering back to hers from across the smoky room.

So when he finished his set and approached her, she honestly wasn't all that surprised.

"You," he began slowly, the barest hint of a lilting southern drawl in his words as he leaned his arm onto the bar top beside her, "are too damn pretty to be sitting here alone."

Buffy wrapped her hand around her beer and picked it up, appraising the man in front of her. Shaggy dark brown hair and bright blue eyes, five o'clock shadow. Big, bright smile. Teeth that were just a smidge too white. But not unattractive, by any means.

"Wow," Buffy murmured appreciatively, smirking at him from around the rim of her bottle as she raised it to her lips. "Does that…ever actually work?"

The too-wide smile fell immediately, replaced by a more subdued version. Sheepishly, he nodded his head and pushed himself off the bar top. "Does on Boston girls," he admitted, then paused and squinted at her. "Doesn't sound like you are one, though."

Buffy finished her sip and shook her head. "Southern California."

"Ah, no wonder." He grinned at her, then turned his attention to Faith. Waved her over, requested a beer for himself. Took a long sip and set it back down on the bar, glanced toward Buffy and asked, "You like the set?"

He was making small talk with her. He was making small talk with her in a bar. Buffy had no desire to be rude to him, but she also wasn't sure she could stomach the niceties required for this kind of interaction at the moment. She'd come here for a drink and to talk with Faith, not get talked up by the evening's entertainment.

Then again, it wasn't like he was hitting on her or anything. Hadn't asked her why she was out at a bar by herself, hadn't offered to buy her a drink. And he honestly did seem nice enough, lame attempted pick up line be damned. So what _was_ the harm in a little friendly small talk?

"Uh, I did, yeah." She nodded, turning her eyes down to her almost empty beer. She fiddled with the label. "I mean, Kansas?" She glanced back up at him again. "Not _exactly_ what I would've expected to hear in an Irish pub, but other than that..."

He laughed with her and took another swig of beer. "I do a mean cover of "Whiskey in the Jar" if that's more your thing."

She shook her head, wrinkled her nose. "It's not."

"I'm Lindsey," he said, extending his hand out to her.

They shook. "So said the sign out front." She brought her hand quickly back to her bottle. "I'm Buffy."

"Buffy," Lindsey repeated her name like he'd heard it before. Then he paused, eyes widening. "Wait, Faith's _roommate_ Buffy?"

She turned to cast a curious glance at Faith, who was busy pouring shots for a slightly more rowdy crowd down at the other end of the bar. Their eyes met briefly, and Faith winked. Buffy gave her a knowing look, then shifted her gaze back to Lindsey with a tight smile. "That'd be me."

His grin widened, and he slid up onto the barstool beside hers. "Then I have heard a _lot_ about you."

Buffy forced herself to smile back, thinking of her earlier phone conversation with Faith. _C'mon, B. Don't be lame. Come by the bar tonight. Fridays are always slow, I'll be wicked bored otherwise._

Right.

Faith had been trying to get her to come to the bar on Friday nights for weeks now, always under the guise of telling Buffy she'd be doing her a huge favor. It was all starting to make sense now. Because this little set up here? This had Faith written all over it.

Good intentions, poor execution.

"Don't believe everything you've heard," Buffy told the man sitting beside her breezily, doing her best to hide the flare of irritation swelling in her chest.

Lindsey laughed again, saying, "I wouldn't dream of it. So…Buffy, Faith's roommate from Southern California." He tilted his head to the side. "Gonna let me buy you a drink?"

Instantly, Buffy's hackles went up, little alarm bell sounding in her head at the words. This was her first time going out, _out_ out, in the city since that disastrous night over a month ago. The last time she'd met a stranger in a bar, let him buy her drinks, she'd ended up going home with her boss. Of course, logically, she knew Lindsey wasn't her boss. She didn't see a ring on his finger either, so she guessed he probably wasn't married. Not that the ring was the tell-tale sign, because obviously, Spike. But she also assumed Faith wouldn't be trying to set her up with a married man. So those were already two things, two huge things, he had going for him. Three, if she counted the fact that he was clearly not unpleasant to look at.

But he also had one sort of massive thing counting against him and, even though she desperately, urgently didn't want to, Buffy found herself comparing him to Spike. Which wasn't fair and wasn't right and was actually incredibly _wrong_ on about a million different levels, which she realized. But she just couldn't help it. Not now, not yet. Not with the feel and the taste of him emblazoned in her memory so clearly right now.

So she shook her head no.

"I'm not drinking tonight," she told him politely, eyes dropping, embarrassed by the traitorous thoughts buzzing around in her head.

Lindsey shifted, leaning down to tap the neck of his own beer against the neck of hers playfully. "That bottle in your hand says different," he quipped, southern drawl thickening a little as he did.

Momentarily disarmed, Buffy looked up and smiled, backpedaling. "Oh, no, I mean…" she lifted the bottle demonstratively, "I'm not _drinking_ tonight. Like… _drinking_ , drinking. I…" She trailed off, shaking her head and feeling silly for her stilted explanation. Not _drinking_ , drinking. As if that somehow cleared everything up? She made an apologetic face at him and set her bottle back down. "Sorry."

He smiled politely at her and nodded his head, looking like he understood. "Say no more." He gave her bottle one last little tap, slid off the barstool and inclined his head toward her in a gentlemanly fashion. "You have a nice night."

"You too," she said softly, smiling back. She watched his back as he moved away from her, meandering down the bar top.

A moment later, Buffy's purse vibrated. Frowning, fully expecting it to be a message from Dawn asking why she hadn't made their customary Friday evening phone call yet, she was more than a little surprised to see that the message waiting for her was from Spike. He hadn't texted her, hadn't contacted her at all outside of working hours, since their talk the week prior.

Buffy inhaled sharply through her nose and opened his message.

 **Spike. 7/12 9:19pm** _Can't stop thinking about you in that green dress._

Butterfly wings whipping up in the pit of her stomach, an unwelcome thrill shooting down her spine at his words, Buffy grit her teeth and typed her blunt reply.

 _Try._

A couple minutes later, the screen blinked to life again. She reached for it, bringing it up close to her face so she could read the message without feeling like someone was peeking over her shoulder.

 **Spike. 7/12 9:25pm.** _Did. Didn't take. Still wearing it?_

Buffy felt guilty for the way her breath caught in her throat at that. Instantly ashamed, she thought for a minute about lying, but wasn't sure exactly what she thought that would accomplish. If she said no he'd probably fire back at her about whatever it was she was wearing now, and that wouldn't lead anywhere good, especially if he made the assumption that she was maybe at home in bed. So Buffy sighed, bit down on the inside of her cheek and typed _Yes, I'm still wearing it._

Hit send.

She glanced up, noticed Lindsey engaging in what looked like a friendly little back and forth with Faith from a little ways down the bar. She couldn't hear what it was they were saying, what with the music now pumping through the speakers around the pub, but she guessed it had a little something to do with her since both their eyes drifted her way occasionally as she watched.

Her phone vibrated in her hand.

 **Spike. 7/12 9:28pm**. _Do you want to be?_

And there it was, running full tilt in her imagination. The words he'd said to her in his office that afternoon coupled with the messages he'd just sent, and she could see it. Spike kissing her roughly, his tongue in her mouth. Strong hands pushing up the fabric of her dress. Fingers digging into her thighs as he sat her up on the edge of his desk, or on his kitchen counter, or on the bar top she was sitting at now.

Her inner muscles clenched suddenly, and her eyes fell shut.

God, he wasn't being _fair_. Wasn't playing by the rules he'd set up in the beginning. What was he trying to do? What did he _want_ from her? To show up at the door to his love nest, tear at his clothes and say "take me, I'm yours, your marriage and my career and everything I know to be good and right be damned"?

Because she was dangerously close to doing just that.

She opened her eyes again, feeling the slight buzzing in her head from the two beers she'd had, feeling the fluttering butterflies in her gut giving way to panic. And she made a decision. Not knowing, not caring if it was a smart one or not, she set her phone face down on the bar top and cleared her throat.

"Hey, Lindsey?" she called out, and he turned back toward her, eyes bright from whatever joke he'd just been telling to Faith. Buffy smiled at him and pushed her empty beer bottle forward. "If the offer still stands, I'll take that drink now."

 ** _-Saturday, July 13th. 12:14pm-_**

It was the loud knock on her bedroom door that woke Buffy up, followed immediately by the muted call from her roommate. "B, you up?"

Up. Up was a word for it.

Buffy groaned as loudly as she dared, a muffled sounding "Urgh" from where she lay on her back, her duvet covers pulled up over her head. Her head was pounding, her tummy in knots, the muscles in her neck stiff. Everything ached.

Whatever it was she'd ended up drinking last night, it clearly hadn't agreed with her.

She heard her door squeak open, and murmured another muffled sound.

Faith laughed, padding into the bedroom as she asked, "Is that hangover for 'come in'?"

Buffy rolled onto her side and lowered the duvet from her face and down to her neck, blinking into the sunlight streaming in through her open curtains. "Hmph."

"Taking that as a yes," the brunette said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and handing Buffy a bottle of water. She took it but didn't open it. Faith's eyes scanned over her face, and she grimaced. "God, you look awful."

Buffy rolled her eyes, shifted further onto her side to prop herself up on her elbow. "Well, take a good look," she grumped, reaching a hand up to run it under her eyes, coming away with smeared mascara. "This is your handiwork."

"I just made you the drinks," Faith reminded her smugly, looking like she was trying really hard not to laugh. "I didn't make you drink them."

That was true enough.

"I don't even know why I feel so bad," Buffy said, pushing herself into a sitting positing, wincing as the throbbing in her temples increased. She leaned back into her pillows and twisted the cap off the water bottle. "I didn't even drink that much. Just those two beers and… _ow_ ," another painful throb behind her eyes, "whatever that thing was that Lindsey bought me."

Faith smiled knowingly, leaning back onto her hands and kicking her legs back and forth. "That thing Lindsey bought you was a Texas Tea."

Buffy frowned, raising the water to her lips. "That doesn't sound bad." She took a big sip.

"It has twice the amount of tequila as a Long Island," Faith told her.

 _Oh._ Buffy's stomach rolled at the word, knots churning tighter. She hadn't drank tequila since the night she'd met Spike. "That explains it."

"C'mon, B," she reached over and slapped Buffy once playfully on the thigh through the duvet, "you need to detox."

Buffy blinked numbly at her much-too-peppy roommate. Come on…as in get up? As in get up and _go_ somewhere? "Does that mean a bubble bath with Epsom salts?" she asked hopefully, tilting the water bottle to her mouth again and draining it.

Faith grabbed the empty bottle out of her hand and shook her head, hopping up off the bed. "No, that means sweat." She grinned and nodded. "Lots of it."

That…sounded horrible.

"Sweat?" Buffy repeated the word like it was a foreign language, her head doing another pulsing throb.

"Yep." The dark haired girl clapped her hands together. "Let's go, we're getting our workout on."

Buffy gaped at her. "Oh, no." She pulled the covers further up over her shoulders, trying to burrow down beneath them. " _No_. I am so not going to the gym with you."

Faith reached up and grabbed the covers, pulling them back down again. "Not the gym, just yoga."

There was so much, so much, wrong with that sentence that Buffy wasn't even sure where to start. _Just_ yoga. Just _yoga_. Either way. Wrong.

She frowned. "I think I'm still drunk."

"Okay, it's not really my thing either," Faith explained, sighing, folding her arms up over her chest. "But a chick I know has been ragging on me to come to her hot yoga class for weeks and I've been avoiding it." She shrugged. "Why not give it a shot?"

Buffy could think of several reasons why not, including the flips her stomach was currently doing. "I don't think your friend wants me puking up Texas all over her yoga studio," she grumbled, sinking further down into her pillows.

Faith rolled her eyes. "There's no way you feel _that_ bad. It'll be good for you, anyway." Then she paused and her eyes sparkled mischievously, making a show of bending over and stretching out her back beside the bed. "Get you all nice and bendy for your big date tonight." She winked, laughed and stood back up.

Buffy just stared at her, thrown. Positive she hadn't heard her right. _Date?_ "What date?"

Faith's saucy grin fell slightly, her brow furrowing. " _Your_ date?" When the words got no reaction from her roommate, she frowned. "With Lindsey? Ya know, that thing you agreed to last night." Faith gestured with her hands, acting out the conversation. "He said 'let me take you out tomorrow night' and you said 'okay, sure'?"

"Oh, right," Buffy mumbled, reaching a hand up to run it through her tangled hair. "That date." She closed her eyes.

 _Shit._

Faith laughed, dropping her hands down to her sides. "Oh my God, you don't remember."

"No, I do," Buffy insisted, opening her eyes once more. And she did remember. Now, she did. Remembered laughing hysterically at a joke he'd told her that really hadn't been all that funny. Remembered leaning forward and slapping her hand on Lindsey's knee. And that's when he'd asked her. Told her he wanted to take her to dinner and dancing. She'd agreed. "I just…forgot."

This had her roommate laughing again. "Forgot how well you two hit it off last night? I didn't. I knew you would. God," Faith gazed up at the ceiling, planting her hands on her hips. "I'm a genius."

Buffy looked at the brunette and narrowed her eyes. "That reminds me," she said, raising a brow. "When _exactly_ were you going to tell me you were trying to set me up?"

"When it worked out." Faith grinned as though realizing for the first time that it had. "So hey, I was setting you up. And in case you _forgot_ , he's coming to pick you up at 7:00 which gives us six hours and forty minutes to get you all date ready." And with that she turned on her heel and moved toward the bedroom door.

"And being 'date ready' includes enduring a hot yoga class with you?" Buffy called after her, watching her friend's back as she sauntered from the room and out into the living space.

Faith tossed a sassy glance over her shoulder, coupled with another scandalous wink. "You'll thank me later."

Buffy frowned deeply, flopping with a huff back down onto her pillows. Ignoring the renewed thumping in her temples as she did.

 _You'll thank me later._

Somehow, Buffy kind of doubted that.

 ** _-Saturday, July 13th. 3:06pm-_**

"So?" Faith asked expectantly as they exited the yoga studio, bags slung over their shoulders and sweat still dripping down their faces. They fell in step beside each other as they walked down the sidewalk. "Feel better?"

Buffy gave a quick, short laugh and cast a sidelong glance at her roommate. "Feel less hung over. _Better_ is still up for debate. I didn't think my legs could bend that way." She frowned, reaching a hand around and down to rub at her tender hamstring. "I'm _still_ not sure they can."

"Right?" The brunette laughed, wincing a little as she took slightly too big a step. "I thought yoga was supposed to be all…zen, or whatever."

"Maybe the zen comes later?" Buffy offered, slipping her hand up to grip the strap of her bag.

"Doubt it." Faith reached around and braced a hand against her lower back, twisting to crack her spine. "I think little miss 'find your inner goddess' dislocated my Chak from my ra."

Buffy laughed. "I blame you, she's your friend." She kept walking and inhaled deeply, the delicious, greasy scent of cheesy, doughy goodness. There was a little pizza place a little further up the block that always smelled incredible whenever she passed by on her way to and from work, but Buffy had never had time to stop for a slice. She came to a halt, pointed toward the pizza place and asked, "Wanna stop for some post not-so-zen fuel? I'm starving." Her stomach growled immediately to illustrate her point.

Faith shook her head and started walking again. "Nah, can't. I have to be at work by 5:00." Then she smiled broadly and leaned her shoulder playfully into Buffy's. "You and the cowboy comin' by the bar again tonight?"

Buffy rolled her eyes good naturedly, pressing her own shoulder back into Faith's equally sweaty one. The other girl was far, far more excited about Buffy's' evening festivities than Buffy was herself. Throughout the miserable hour and thirty minute yoga class, Buffy had tried to figure out just what exactly it was about him that she thought was missing. It wasn't that Lindsey wasn't a nice enough guy, because he was. _Totally_ was. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was too nice, or too polite. Not enough…bite. Sure, all that that good ol' boy, southern charm was definitely a thing. A definite swoon worthy thing.

There just wasn't any real sparkage.

So she'd go on the date. Go to dinner, make polite conversation. Go dancing if that was really where he wanted to take her. But that would be it, and she already knew it.

"I don't think I'll be doing much drinking tonight," Buffy said simply, keeping all her other thoughts to herself. "You really wanna come back and do _that_ again tomorrow?" She pointed back over her shoulder toward the yoga studio.

Faith shook her head immediately and made a face. "Think I'll pass. I can think of much more pleasant ways to get all hot and sticky and twisted up like a pretzel." Then she looked at Buffy and smiled sassily again. "Most of them _not_ involving doing it to myself."

Buffy had to laugh. Reaching her hands up and smoothing her hair back, tightening her pony tail, she asked, "Is this the part where you get all Kama Sutra-y on me?"

"God, I wish," Faith groaned. "Haven't been with a guy who could keep up with me in months. Boston boys, ya know?" She shook her head, voice taking on a seductive, dreamy quality. "Just once I'd like to be with a _man._ Someone who knows how t—" she stopped short, something a little ways ahead catching her eye. Buffy watched a slow smirk curve her friend's lips. "Speak of the devil." She inclined her chin toward the little outdoor seating area of the pizza place, about twenty feet away. "Hey B, look who it is."

Frowning, confused, eyes still on her roommate, Buffy asked, "Huh?"

"Silver fox, ten o'clock."

Buffy whipped her head around, following the line of Faith's gaze. "Spike?"

Spike.

There he was, sitting by himself outside the pizza place at one of the little outdoor red checkered clothed tables. He was facing toward them, but his head was down. Hadn't noticed them yet. He was dressed more formally than Buffy would have expected on a Saturday afternoon. Dark grey dress pants and a mauve button down, tucked in, unbuttoned at the collar and no tie. Platinum curls slightly tousled like he'd been running his fingers through them. A glass of red wine and a half-eaten slice of pizza sat on the table in front of him. He had one hand down on his wine glass, gliding the tips of his thumb and pointer fingers slowly along the stem. In his other hand, he held a worn-looking paper back copy of _Catcher in the Rye_.

Buffy had just enough presence of mind to realize that it was funny, the fact that her immediate thought was to be grateful that at least they seemed to have opposite tastes in the classics when it came to reading for fun. Because in this moment, it was the only saving grace.

If he'd been sitting there reading _The Great Gatsby_ she might have leapt across the table and tackled him to the ground.

She snapped out of _that_ little day dream before it could take root and spread, turning back toward Faith. Her words rang in her ears now. _Speak of the devil._ "We weren't talking about Spike," she said lamely, wondering how long she'd been standing there, numb, staring at him.

Faith just smiled, snaking her tongue out to run along her bottom lip as she said, "No, but I was sure _thinking_ about him."

Buffy sputtered, groaned like that was the most disgusting thing she'd ever heard and not at all like she'd been thinking the exact same. "Oh, _gross_."

"C'mon," Faith started striding purposefully toward his table, "let's go say hi."

Panic surged through each and every one of Buffy's veins, and she cried out, loudly, before she could stop herself. "No!"

Caught off guard by the sheer urgency in Buffy's voice, the brunette skidded to a halt and whirled around, eyes wide with confusion. "Why not?"

Why not? Why…not. Well, that was a great question. Somehow, Buffy didn't think _Because_ _I'm trying to spend as much time as I possibly can avoiding him so I don't become an adulterous home wrecking whore like the woman my father left my mother for_ was an answer that she could give.

Buffy hadn't seen Spike outside of work since the 4th of July, had no idea what kind of behavior she could expect from him if they were well outside the confines of the aforementioned "here" they'd discussed last week in his office. She wasn't sure she was ready to find out. So instead she stood, shoulder strap digging into her bare skin, biting down hard on her cheek as she tried to think of a more acceptable reason. When she began to speak, she was highly aware of the subtext in each and every reason she was giving.

" _Because_ he's…he's my boss, Faith." _That I'm trying not to have an illicit affair with._ "And it's weird, seeing him out in public on a weekend." _Looking so totally delicious._ "A-and he looks busy, we shouldn't bother him if he's busy." Finally, going for one last ditch effort…which also happened to be true, she grimaced and said, "And I'm all gross and sweaty."

None of her reasons seemed to have daunted Faith in the least, because all she did was cross her arms and raise an eyebrow. "So what?" She asked, referencing the final reason. "Men love that shit. Makes them think of sex."

Buffy balked, swallowing hard as her eyes bugged wide in their sockets. She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a hiss. "Something I don't want my _boss_ associating with me."

 _Any more than he probably already does._

To that, Faith smirked, dropping her arms down again. "Who said anything about him associating it with you?" She made a show of running the tip of her finger over the sweat soaked cleavage her workout top exposed. "I'm sweaty, too."

And Buffy wasn't sure what prospect was worse. Running into Spike after all hot and smelly and sweaty from a workout, or running into him with Faith being all hot and sweaty from a workout.

"It's not…" she stammered, trying to think up another excuse. "I mean, _I'm_ not…I'm just—where are you _going_?"

But Faith wasn't listening anymore, had already turned and taken off again, walking straight for Spike's table. Buffy followed, helpless to do anything else. The dark haired girl didn't bother to pause or even look back at her as she answered, " _I_ am going to say hi to your hot boss."

They were closing in quickly on his table. Twelve feet, then eight. One final try. "Faith, no."

Five feet. Impervious, the brunette called out. "Hey—"

Buffy grabbed her by the arm, hissing, "Faith."

"—Spike!"

And that did it. Brow furrowed, looking momentarily annoyed at being interrupted, the bleached blonde glanced up from his book and took a look around. It took him less than a full second for his eyes to find Buffy's. And they softened immediately, his lips curving up. He leaned back, kept the book open in his hand but rested it against the table cloth.

"Well, well," he purred, not even bothering to temper his pleased reaction at seeing her out and about unexpectedly. He tilted his head to the side. "Look who it is."

And look he did. Let his eyes trail from where the tip of her pony tail ended at her clavicle and down, over her strappy little tank top, down to her black yoga pants and back up. His eyes had darkened considerably by the time they met hers again.

Taken in by him, Buffy swallowed, melted a little internally into goo. Feeling pinned under the scrutiny of his gaze, all she could say was, "Hi."

Beside her, Faith cleared her throat. Loudly. "Hey there," she murmured.

Whatever miniature spell Spike had woven between himself and Buffy vanished in a flash. As if realizing for the first time that someone else was there, that the two of them were far from being alone, he straightened. Eyes momentarily going wide, maybe realizing just how noticeable an appraisal he'd just given his employee, he cleared his throat, set the book down and nodded to acknowledge the brunette. "Hello."

Both Faith's and Spike's eyes panned toward her expectantly, and Buffy floundered. Right. Introductions. That was her thing.

"Faith," she gestured with her hand toward Spike, "this is my boss, William Pratt. Mr. Pratt," she used his name purposefully, delineating a boundary she hoped he wouldn't cross. Not here. Not in public. "My roommate, Faith Lehane."

Seeming to take the cue, Spike nodded and smiled casually. Setting his book down he pushed himself to his feet, leaning across the table to extend his hand. "Nice to see you again, Faith." He inclined his head toward her and asked, suddenly all charm and charisma, "We have met before if I'm not mistaken, yeah?"

Faith smiled back. "Not mistaken," she told him, letting him shake her hand, then holding on just a little longer than necessary before releasing her grip. "I've heard a lot about you."

Spike chuckled, risking a short sidelong glance at Buffy before letting his eyes crinkle at the corners, saying, "All terribly horrendous things, I hope."

"Mostly," Faith quipped, her eyes bright, a saucy grin tickling her lips. Then she shrugged. "And some bits and pieces about how brilliant you supposedly are."

Buffy froze where she stood, sucked her cheeks in and exhaled sharply through her nose. Fought the urge to toss a wicked glare her friend's way.

Pleased, Spike raised both brows and smiled, lowering his voice. "Is that right?"

"That _is_ right," Faith repeated silkily, her tone matching his.

Buffy wanted the sidewalk to open up and swallow her whole.

He smirked appreciatively, his eyes shifting back to Buffy's. She met them unwaveringly, holding her ground as she watched them do their sparkling thing. "Color me flattered."

She fought the urge to narrow her eyes at him. _Color me never being able to live this down._

"So, blondie," Faith said suddenly, her voice drawing both blondes' attention back toward her. "What brings you to our neck of the woods?"

In the time that Buffy and Spike had been staring each other down, the other girl had shifted positions. Dropped her bag to the ground and leaned forward, braced her hands on the back of the chair in front of her. Strategically, Buffy realized, to show off the maximum amount of boob without looking too completely obvious.

And it worked, too.

Buffy could only stand and watch, a slow, deep seated sense of envy that surprised even her roiling in her stomach, fluttering up into her chest as Spike's eyes started on Faith's face but slowly began drifting down as he answered her. "I have an appointment down here this afternoon, thought I'd stop for a late lunch." His voice remained cool, detached, even as his eyes dropped lower. "You two live round here?"

Buffy's hands curled into fists at her sides, nails digging hard into her palms. She couldn't say anything. Couldn't _do_ anything. Couldn't chastise him in public for possibly, accidentally, looking down her roommate's top. And he knew it. Whether or not he was doing this on purpose, though, she wasn't sure. Couldn't tell because he wasn't even looking at her.

But if he was trying to make her jealous, it was working.

Faith nodded, oblivious to the tension rising on her left. "Two blocks that way."

"Oh?" Curiosity piqued, Spike tore his gaze away from Faith's cleavage and back up to her face. "What building?"

"Clarendon Res—"

Having had enough, not even caring if this act of his was on purpose or not, not caring that the reason she'd had enough was because she _was_ jealous, Buffy cleared her throat. "We're sorry to bother you," she said loudly, effectively interjecting, bringing both pairs of eyes back to her. "We didn't mean to interrupt."

Spike's eyes scanned Buffy's face, looking bemused. He searched her eyes a moment, then dropped his gaze down to her hands. Noticed they were balled up tightly into fists. Smirking widely, he raised his head back level with hers, understanding. "Yes, because as you can see I'm so very busy." He gestured toward his pizza, the half empty glass of wine and the paper back on the table.

Faith laughed loudly at that, bringing Spike's amused eyes back toward her. The two of them shared a smile, and Buffy bit down hard on her lip to keep herself from saying exactly what she was thinking. Which was something along the lines of the fact that she could kill him. She could just _kill_ him.

Right after she shoved him to the ground and staked her claim on him, that was.

"Well, it was _great_ seeing you, Sp— Mr. Pratt." She forced a big, painfully bright smile onto her face and hiked her bag more firmly up onto her shoulder. "Have a nice lunch…and a good…whatever."

She turned to go, but his voice caught her, low and smooth. "What's the hurry, luv?"

Buffy paused, stopped, slowly turned back around. And oh, he knew. He knew what the hurry was. She could see it etched in every too-handsome line of his face, all long, fluttering lashes and false innocence. She could read it in the curve of his mouth when he tilted his head and asked, "Why don't you two stay? Sit. Have some nosh." And his expression never changed, but his eyes did. Crinkling just slightly around the edges in challenge. "You look ravenous."

She sucked her cheeks in, forgetting herself just long enough to send a vicious glare his way.

Faith, for her part, never even noticed. Eyes still glued to Spike's face, she bit her lip, the words leaving her mouth in an inappropriately husky voice. "I know I am."

Buffy clenched her fists again.

Spike just vaguely acknowledged Faith's comment before cocking a brow in Buffy's direction. "Summers?"

She fought the urge to gape at him. _Summers_? He was just calling her by her last name now?

"I'm not hungry," she said tightly, still feigning civility. "Thanks."

Beside her, Faith stood back up, turned to her. Frowned. "But you just said—"

"I lost my appetite," Buffy cut her off before she could finish, offering her friend a small, strained smile. All she wanted to do at this point was go home.

Faith just stared at her, looking confused. And rightfully so, Buffy guessed. It wasn't like she knew anything about Buffy's real history with her boss. Wasn't like she knew how insanely jealous all her shameless flirting was making her. Couldn't have known anything about what was going on between her and Spike.

 _What_ had _been going on,_ Buffy corrected herself immediately _._ Shook her head. _Had._

 _Past tense._

Faith gave her a look that said something along the lines of _what bug flew up your skirt_ and said slowly, "Well, I'm getting a slice." She turned back to Spike and gave him a flirtatious smile. " _I_ will be right back." And she turned and sauntered across the sidewalk, disappearing inside the restaurant.

Buffy kept her eyes on the door long after she'd vanished, not looking as Spike as he pulled his chair back out and sank down into it. Another long moment passed, the only sounds the traffic on the street behind them, the hum of people milling around the walk.

Finally, Spike broke the silence. "You aren't goin' to sit?"

Buffy turned her eyes on him, not surprised to see him gazing at her and looking very pleased with himself. Oh, he knew exactly what he'd done alright. She folded her arms. "I'm not eating."

"So you can't sit?" he asked her breezily, peeling a black olive off the slice of pizza in front of him and popping it in his mouth.

Cheeks flushing hot, Buffy gripped the back of the chair closest to him and pulled it out roughly, dropping down into it. She leaned closer to him, lowering her voice. "I know what you're doing."

This amused him. He arched a brow, reaching for his wine. "What am I doing?"

"'Oh, you live 'round 'ere?" She mocked in a purposefully terrible approximation of his accent. She tilted her head to the side. "How interestin'. What building?'"

Spike chuckled in response and leaned back in his chair. "Don't flatter yourself, luv. Meant what I told you last week. I'm not going to pursue anythin' with you." He took a sip, set the glass back down and undressed her with his eyes. "Not 'til you say please."

Buffy opened her mouth to respond automatically, the words _never gonna happen_ coming immediately to mind, but what came out instead was a question. "So that text last night?" she challenged him, choosing to ignore the goose bumps his gaze had given her despite the muggy July air. "That wasn't you _pursuing_ me?"

For the first time since she and Faith had run into Spike that afternoon, the self-assured smile fell. He glanced away from her, turning his gaze out into the street. "That was a brief moment of weakness," he conceded, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

Buffy snickered, glad to have rattled him. "Right."

Annoyed, he whipped his head back toward her, eyes flashing. "Still has nothin' to do with today." Then the cool confidence was back as he reached a hand out and drummed his fingers on top of his book. "This was purely a happy coincidence. I have an appointment two doors down, and these buggers happen to have the best pizza in the city." His fingers stopped their ministrations and he told her, "Didn't have any idea you lived down here."

And she believed him. That hadn't even really been what she'd meant when she'd told him she knew what he was doing, but somehow admitting to him that she knew he was using Faith's attention to make her jealous seemed like it wouldn't be the smartest move to make. Not if she wanted him to continue to think it hadn't bothered her, that she didn't care. Didn't want him.

"Whatever," she finally said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms, deciding to just sit back and stay quiet until Faith came back out. She looked away from Spike, focused on the people who were walking down the sidewalk.

"That roommate of yours seems right friendly," he offered innocently, his eyes finding hers when she reluctantly turned back toward him again.

Buffy scoffed and nodded her head. "That's because she wants to jump your bones."

"Why, Buffy Summers," he breathed, leaning toward her conspiratorially. "Do I detect a hint of jealousy?"

She let herself glare at him this time, mostly to cover up the fact that her lips were twitching at that. She mirrored him, leaning in closer and whispering, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I might," Spike told her honestly, leaning back once more. He propped his elbow on the thin armrest of his chair and placed his head in his hand. "What I really like is your little outfit."

She sighed, trying to remember that she was annoyed. "This isn't an _outfit_ , Spike. I'm wearing workout clothes."

"Exactly," he breezed, inhaling through his nose and letting his eyes run over her again. "I like this look on you. Never get to see you so casual. Or relaxed. Or sweaty." He paused, gaze landing on hers again. "Well, no, guess that last bit's not quite true—"

Mercifully, Faith chose that exact moment to burst out of the restaurant and out into the small sidewalk patio, plate and massive slice of cheese pizza in hand. "God, that line was wicked long." She stepped back up to the table, lifting the pizza to her mouth and taking a big bite. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing," Buffy said immediately, shoving herself back up to her feet. Nearly tripping over the chair in her hurry. She turned to her roommate. "I should head home and shower. You staying or coming with?"

"Oh, _right_ ," Faith purred as if she'd forgotten, waggling her eyebrows suggestively as she leaned her hip against the table, "you have to get ready for tonight."

Spike arched a brow, interest clearly elevated. "You ladies have big plans?"

Faith nodded, swallowing another bite of her pizza. "I have to work," she explained, licking her lips. "But B here has herself a date. Real wholesome, southern sweetie-pie type." She grinned at Buffy wolfishly. "She met him at the bar I work at."

Buffy's eyes met Spike's from over Faith's shoulder, and her mouth went a little dry at the look she saw there.

He stared at her evenly as he asked, "Just a guy in a bar?"

To the untrained ear, it wouldn't sound like anything. Just a passing inquiry. A throw away, small talk. But Buffy could hear it, every inflection, every tiny nuance that one seemingly harmless question held. It was in his eyes, too, if anyone had bothered to look. Hints of jealousy, which was bad, and also of something that looked a lot like disappointment.

Which was worse.

"No, _no_ ," she said quickly, for some inexplicable reason in a hurry to explain herself. To let him know that it wasn't the same. _Far_ from the same. "He was the entertainment last night at her bar." That had Spike's scarred brow arching high, so she backpedaled. "I mean…he plays the guitar. And sings."

"He's not bad, either." Faith finished the last bite of her pizza and set the plate down onto the table, brushing off her hands. "Apparently, she has this thing for guys with pipes."

Buffy gave her friend a look, exasperated. She'd made the mistake of telling Faith that part of the reason she'd agreed to the date with Lindsey had been on the off chance she could get him to serenade her with an acoustic version of "Dust In the Wind", which had been a total joke, but apparently in the midst of sweltering 110 degree sun salutations everything came out sounding serious.

"It's not a _thing_ , I…" _Didn't ask for this. Didn't want to be set up. Don't even want to go._ But she couldn't say any of that. Couldn't justify saying any of that. So she sighed, shook her head. "Never mind." To her roommate. "You coming?"

"Yep." Faith grabbed up her bag, which she'd left sitting beside the table, and smiled at the bleached blonde across from her. "Nice to see you again, _Spike_."

"Mmm, you too," he said, sounding distracted. He wasn't even looking at the brunette. His eyes were still on Buffy. Dark, blazing and verging on predatory as he leaned back and murmured, "Enjoy your evening."

 ** _-Saturday, July 13th. 9:48pm-_**

Buffy hadn't been able to enjoy her evening.

Not that things with Lindsey hadn't been great, because really, they had been. He'd been right on time to pick her up, taken her to a delicious Mexican restaurant that she'd never heard of before. He'd been attentive and polite, engaging, and more interesting than she'd honestly expected. He was born and raised in Texas, which hadn't been surprising to Buffy. What had been surprising was how, even though Lindsey was nice and funny and sweet, Buffy could not, for the life of her, stay focused on him. Not through dinner, not through dessert, not through the walk they'd taken from the restaurant to the club he'd planned on taking her to.

It was Spike. God, it was _always_ Spike. After the look he'd given her earlier that afternoon, she'd more than halfway been expecting a slew of text messages from him. Jealous, cold, maybe even a little disdainful. But she hadn't gotten anything. Nothing. Not a single one.

And even though she didn't like it, even though she really, _really_ didn't want it to, it was bothering her.

A lot.

It was one thing for him to hold his tongue at work, but on a weekend? After his whole here versus there speech, after Faith had told him she was going out on a date? It wasn't tracking for Buffy. It made her feel like he was up to something.

And that was why, the _only_ reason why, she found herself fishing her cell phone out of her purse when Lindsey excused himself to the bar to get them more drinks, escorting Buffy back to their table to wait for him.

One new message. From Spike.

Buffy held her breath and read it.

 **Spike. 7/13 8:48pm** _What do you think?_

There was a photo attached. Frowning, Buffy opened it. It was a picture of the proposed cover art for _Darkness and Shadow_. A cheesy looking illustration of a half-moon shrouded in cloud cover, the text of the title in swirling navy cursive below it.

So, not at all what she'd been expecting. He'd texted her, sure, but it was about work. Just about work.

Pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, thinking about what she wanted to say for a second, she began to type out a reply.

 _I think it's as bad as the book._

His reply came a few minutes later.

 **Spike. 7/13 10:04pm** _Guess that means the art department got something right._

Her lips itched to curve up a little at that, and since no one was around to see it, she let them. She typed out her next response.

 _Are you in charge of approving it?_

Buffy was busy looking down at her phone, half expecting another virtually immediate reply from Spike that she barely noticed when Lindsey arrived back at the table. She jumped a little when he set a glass of white wine down beside her hand, smiling sweetly at her when it made her jump and whip her eyes up toward him.

"Sorry," he apologized, sliding down into his seat across from her and fingering the neck of his beer. "Didn't mean to scare ya."

"Not scared," Buffy told him, darkening her phone's screen and scooting it away from her, turning her attention back to her date. She smiled at him. "Just glad you're back."

His eyes brightened at that. "Yeah?"

She nodded, but felt a little twisty and guilty as she said it. "Yeah."

And her phone buzzed a second later.

 **Spike. 7/13 10:17pm** _Sadly, no. Just thought you'd want to see it._

Deciding not to respond, that this was as good a place as any to end the weird late night work texting, Buffy darkened the screen of her phone and pushed it forward onto the table. She looked up again, smiled brightly.

"So," Lindsey began, watching her eyes, brows raised. "You wanna head back out there and dance some more? Or—"

 _Bzzz._

Her eyes shot back down to the table, to the text lighting up the top of her screen now.

 **Spike. 7/13 10:20pm** _Having fun?_

"Umm, I…" she paused, looking up apologetically. "I'm sorry, I should…it's work." _Not a lie._

Lindsey nodded his concession. "Of course." He took a swig from his beer, and she hurriedly typed up the one word response.

 _Lots._

She hit send and set the phone back down. "What were you saying?"

"Did you want to go out and dance more?" Lindsey reiterated his previous question, gesturing with his bottle out toward the crowded dance floor. He shrugged, looked back at her. Leaned forward across the table. "Or did you just wanna sit for a bit? Play twenty questions?"

Buffy chuckled at that, though she wasn't one hundred percent sure if it was a joke or not. "I don't care," she told him honestly, sipping at the wine he'd brought her. "Whatever you wanna—"

Her phone vibrated on the table, screen lighting up again. Both their eyes dropped to it at the same time. Luck for Buffy, there was no way Linsey would be able to read what the message read or who it was from seated where he was.

 **Spike. 7/13 10:25** _Very convincing, luv._

"Sorry," Buffy apologized, reaching for it. "Work again."

She didn't wait for him to give her the go ahead before responding this time. Gritting her teeth, she clenched her jaw tight as her fingers flew over the keys.

 _I am. He's been great._ Then, as an afterthought, she added _-He brought me dancing._

His response was close to immediate, and even more infuriating than the last.

 **Spike. 7/13 10:28** _More desperate for a shag than I thought, then._

Sucking her cheeks in, glaring down at the screen, she typed, _Shut up, Spike._

Buffy didn't even have time to set the phone down in between texts this time.

 **Spike. 7/13 10:29** _Not sure that applies via text, pet._

Easy. _Then stop texting me._

 **Spike. 7/13 10:31pm** _I'll be happy to stop texting you when you stop ignoring your date to text me back._

Buffy froze, her phone still held tightly in her hand, thumb poised over the reply button. Caught, numbly realizing what it was he'd managed to goad her into doing even from miles away, she stared at the words, read them over again.

 _Damnit._

No more. Decided, Buffy turned off her phone all together and placed it back in her purse. "I'm so sorry," she said earnestly, zipping her purse back up. She looked at Lindsey and smiled widely at him. "No more work tonight, I promise." In her head, she was really thinking no more _Spike_ tonight. "You wanna dance?"

Looking relieved, he smiled back and nodded. Setting his beer down and standing up, he offered his hand to her. "Love to."

Resolved not to think about Spike or work or any of the stupid head games he was so obviously playing with her for the rest of the night, Buffy slipped her hand into his and let him pull her up and lead her out onto the dance floor.

 ** _-Saturday, July 13th. 11:31pm-_**

After an hour spent dancing in Lindsey's arms, an hour spent actively not thinking about her phone or the messages on it or who the messages were from, Buffy leaned toward her date and whispered in his ear over the thrum of the music that she needed to use the little girl's room. He nodded and smiled at her, and she smiled back at him and excused herself, snatching her purse up off their table as she passed by on her way toward the restrooms.

But somehow instead she found herself out on the sidewalk, cell phone pressed against her ear.

Spike picked up on the third ring.

"Wondered when I'd be hearin' your voice," he said breezily, sounding for all the world like he was stretching his arms up leisurely over his head.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" she hissed, starting to pace back and forth on a small stretch of sidewalk.

"Doing? Buffy, I'm not _doing_ anything." Then, voice suddenly rumbling and sensual, "If I was you'd know it."

"You knew I had a date tonight and you texted me anyway," she accused him angrily, jabbing a finger hard into thin air in front of her. As though he were there. As if he could actually feel it if she did it hard enough.

He chuckled in her ear. "All I did was send you a piece of art from work. Didn't hold a gun to your head and _demand_ you respond to me."

Caught, fuming that she'd _been_ caught, Buffy pressed forward. "What are you _doing_?" she asked again, the words coming out tight through gritted teeth.

On the other end of the line, there was silence. She could hear Spike breathing, but he wasn't speaking. Like he didn't have anything to say. Then, finally, just when Buffy was getting ready to hang up the phone, he spoke. Low and soft.

"Provin' a point."

"Which is?" Buffy pressed.

He chuckled again, but this time it was more bitter, less wryly amused. "Don't need to spell it out for you, pet."

Except she was feeling like he sort of did.

"What," she began, still pacing wildly, throwing her free hand up. "That if you pester me enough I'll cave and give you the attention you're asking for?"

His response was sharp, and unexpected. "If you still think this is about me, you aren't half as smart as I think you are."

That made her pause. She stopped pacing abruptly, brow furrowed. "Meaning?"

Spike sighed, the severe edge to his tone softening a little as he explained. "Meaning you want this every bit as badly as I do, luv. You just don't want to admit it to yourself." He paused, the next bit leaving his lips on a sigh. "For whatever _bloody_ reason that is. Ya know, still haven't quite got that part figured-"

"That," Buffy said loudly into the receiver, interrupting him. "Is _ridiculous._ This is the absolute _last_ thing I want."

"That right?" Buffy could hear the challenge in his voice, could see it in her head. His eyebrows shooting high, eyes widening in disbelief. And right on cue, his voice lowered to a low, velvety growl. "Then why are you talkin' on the phone with me instead of on the arm of your date?"

She hung up on him.

Chest heaving, stomach in knots, she stared down at the phone she had clutched in her hand for a few minutes. Frustrated, angry, completely and utterly rattled. And a little turned on. The weird, unmixy mix of emotions that only ever seemed to come out in her whenever Spike was involved. Sucking in a deep breath, Buffy held it for a moment, closed her eyes, let it out again through her nose.

Then she turned and went back inside.


	10. Chapter 10

**_-Sunday, July 14th. 12:02pm-_**

Buffy lay in bed for a long time on Sunday morning. Not doing much of anything, really. Definitely not sleeping. Just thinking mostly, thinking about the night before. Thinking about what had happened. Thinking about what _hadn't_ happened. Thinking about Lindsey, and about Spike. About whether or not she'd made the right decision. If she'd finally, maybe, gone a step too far. She lay under her duvet with her head beneath her pillow and thought, re-hashed it over and over again in her mind. Replaying every moment, every word that was spoken. Trying to figure out if she should pick up her phone and call. Or maybe just text. Apologize for the way things had ended, or if she should just let it go.

Her phone was buzzing again. It had been buzzing intermittently, phone calls and text messages both, since the initial, too-loud buzzing had woken her up at 9:30 that morning. Lazily, she rolled over, picked it up and stared blearily at the screen.

Dawn. Again.

Buffy wasn't ready to talk to her little sister yet. She knew she was calling to talk about the date, the date that Buffy had mentioned to her very briefly the day before when she'd been getting ready. Before Lindsey had arrived to pick her up. She'd only mentioned it briefly then because she'd been so distracted already by her afternoon run-in with Spike and hadn't exactly been in the mood to do the date-dishing thing Dawn was expecting of her. Not that she was in any more of a mood to do it, _now_. No. It just wasn't in her to talk about it yet. She was still feeling nauseated, her chest tight and achy, and this time not at all in a hung over sort of way. More in a _I really shouldn't have done that_ sort of way.

And honestly, she was starting to think she'd prefer the hangover.

Buffy palmed her phone in her hand and rolled back down onto her back, her head landing squarely on top of the pillow this time, and sighed. Waited for her phone to stop buzzing before shutting her eyes.

But of course, as soon as she closed her eyes, there was a knock on the door.

The third one in the last half hour.

She'd been ignoring Faith since the first knock had sounded for the exact same reason she'd been avoiding Dawn's calls. Unfortunately, her sister was much, much easier to ignore than her roommate, as evidenced by the final impatient knock Faith pounded into the wooden door before clearly giving up and deciding just to shove her way into the room.

Buffy turned her head, eyes meeting the other girl's blearily.

"I knew you were awake, you big faker," the brunette drawled, wide grin on her face as she bounded into the room and leapt up onto the bed, making the mattress bounce and creak beneath her weight. And making Buffy glare at her. "You never sleep later than 9:00."

 _Which maybe should have been an indication to leave me alone,_ she mused to herself, but kept that thought locked tightly away in her head. She'd alienated more than enough people in the last 24 hours. She didn't want or need to pick a fight with her friends, too.

"I was tired," Buffy told her simply, not bothering to sit up. She kept her head back flat on her pillow, arms flat on top of the duvet. In her hand, her phone buzzed again. She squeezed the little ignore button on the side and let her eyes flutter shut.

"Ooo," Faith purred, her voice dropping low and seductive, "tired, huh? Sounds like somebody's date went well last night." She leaned forward and squeezed Buffy's leg through the covers. "Alright, spill."

Buffy groaned. This was pretty much exactly what she'd been trying to avoid.

She lifted her head up off the pillow and fixed the dark haired girl with an exasperated look. "Spill _what_?" she asked, feeling absolutely miserable, anxious knots worming their way through her stomach. Aching and exhausted. Like she'd been in a twelve round fight the night before.

Which she sort of had, she guessed. If only of the verbal variety.

"What do you mean, spill _what_?" Faith shifted raucously on the bed, folding her legs up criss-cross beneath herself and sitting up a little straighter. A wicked grin twisting her lips as she bounced on the mattress, she said, "I want every dirty detail."

That had Buffy letting out a long sigh, out through pursed lips. If it was dirty details the other girl was wanting, then she was going to be totally disappointed.

Because there weren't any.

Or, there were. They just didn't have anything to do with what Faith was _thinking_ they had to do with. Didn't have anything to do with her date, or with Lindsey. And had everything to do with her piggish, stubborn, stupid, son-of-a-bitch, know it all of a boss.

Her incredibly sexy, piggish, stubborn, stupid, son-of-a-bitch, know it all of a boss.

 _God._

Groaning again and shutting her eyes, letting her head fall back down into the pillow with an audible huff, Buffy shook her head. "Faith, please," she said softly, "I really don't want to talk about the date."

This had her roommate pausing in her bouncing, the mattress stilling beneath them both. "Why not?"

"Because," Buffy said, letting her lashes flutter, her eyes open again. She stared blankly up at the ceiling. "It…just didn't go great."

It wasn't true. The date itself, or the first half anyway, had been fine. More than fine. Lindsey had been way more than fine.

He just hadn't been _enough_.

"Things didn't get all hot and heavy with the cowboy, then?"

Buffy shook her head again, listening to the swish of her hair against the pillowcase. "No," she said slowly, "things definitely did not get 'hot and heavy' with…" She rolled her eyes. "The _cowboy_ last night."

"Oh." The brunette sounded completely confused by the idea. A beat passed. Then, "Why were you so late getting home then?"

Buffy froze instantly at that, blinking rapidly up at the cheap looking popcorn ceiling but refusing to tear her eyes away from it, refusing to look toward her roommate. She swallowed, mouth suddenly all cottony. "Huh?"

 _Oh,_ real _smooth, Buff_.

"B, you didn't get home until after 3:00 last night." She leaned forward over the bed, crawling up so she could look down into Buffy's face. Dark eyebrows perking up, eyes widening in anticipation. "You had to have been _somewhere_."

Oh. _Crap_.

Think. Think fast.

"I…I was…out," she offered lamely, feeling pinned to her own mattress by the dark, knowing gaze of her friend. She could swear the other girl was reading her mind, staring right down through her eyes and directly down into her brain. Buffy swallowed again. "Just…ya know, out."

She hadn't planned a cover story. Hadn't planned on needing one. Had figured Faith either wouldn't be home by the time she got to the apartment, or that she'd be in her room already. It truthfully hadn't ever occurred to Buffy that Faith might even notice her comings and goings.

"Out," Faith repeated, her mouth twisting up at the corners again. "Right." She pressed her hands into the bed on either side of Buffy and pushed herself back up into a seated position, shrugging casually. "Where were you 'out' at if you weren't 'out' with Lindsey?"

"Nowhere," Buffy said immediately, reflexively. A complete and total knee jerk reaction just as her phone began buzzing again. She silenced it once more, eyes flickering toward it just once to make sure it was still just Dawn before doing so. "I was just…nowhere."

"Okay, that's it." Faith cocked a brow, planted her hands on the mattress behind her and leaned back. "Who is he?"

Buffy finally sat up in her bed, eyes wide. "He?"

"Whoever the guy is you're obviously doing?" Faith responded saucily, all cat who ate the canary, touching her tongue up to the roof of her mouth.

She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. If she really thought she'd be able to get by without anyone ever figuring it out. Without anyone ever asking. And as long as someone was finally asking, Buffy couldn't bring herself to lie anymore. Besides that, it didn't matter much now, anyway.

"Spike," she finally said softly, slumping back into her pillows with a loud, resigned huff. Watching Faith's eyes widen further. "I was with Spike."

 ** _-Sunday, July 14th. 12:46am-_**

"Buffy," Spike breezed as he opened the door to his condo to her, not shockingly, holding a glass of dark amber liquid in one hand, the low sounds of some not-so-punk sounding song Buffy had never heard before thrumming softly from the direction of the record player on his book shelf. He held the door open wide with his left hand, stepped back with just the hint of a smirk on his lips to allow her entrance. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Oh, right," Buffy replied, shoving past him, setting her purse down on his marble kitchen countertop and whirling to face him. "I'm sure you're _real_ surprised."

Looking at her from over his shoulder, Spike raised a faux innocent brow. "I am. Pleasantly. Like I said." He lightly pressed the door closed. Paused, glanced away from her as he raised his drink to his lips, smirking against the glass. "How was your date?"

She gaped at him, mouth falling open. Oh, come _on_. He was just going to stand there all casual and nonchalant? Acting like he _hadn't_ just single handedly ruined the date he was asking after with that stupid, smug smirk on his stupid, smug face.

Her hands curled up into fists.

"My _date_ was wonderful," Buffy returned heatedly, cheeks flushing hot, irritated by his suddenly oh-so-cavalier attitude. "Lindsey was sweet and attentive and funny and—"

" _Lindsey_?" he snorted, both brows shooting up.

Ignoring him, she plowed ahead. "—all with the very _not_ married. And things were going great. _Really_ great. Until _you_." She jabbed an accusatory finger at him the same way she had standing outside of the club, only this time she knew he could see her. "You and your stupid pseudo 'work' texts and your point proving and your—"

"Did he kiss you?"

Buffy balked, her tirade screeching to a sudden, screaming halt as she stared at him. "What?"

"Your date. This Lindsey fellow." Spike still wasn't looking at her. Eyes focused thoughtfully on the ground as he took another casual sip, crunched down on an ice cube. "Did he kiss you?"

 _Oh._

Yeah, that's what she thought he'd said.

"That…is none of your business," she told him, forcing her voice out as steady as she could manage. Her cheeks were even hotter now than they'd been a moment ago.

His warm chuckle reached her ears, stroking along her spine as he stepped further into the condo, finally turning cool, azure eyes to hers. "Since you're standing here with me instead of still out with him, kitten, I'd sincerely beg to differ."

She made a face at him, wrinkling her nose up.

Kitten.

 _Ew_.

Except, not ew. Kind of tingle worthy.

There was a strained, awkward silence between them as several beats passed. They stared each other down. Gaze unwavering, long, nimble fingers moving to cup the bottom of his glass, turning it over in his hand. She listened to the tinkling of ice against the tumbler's sides as she wet her lower lip, pulled it into her mouth and bit down on it.

Finally, Buffy sighed. "Yes. He kissed me."

She expected a different reaction than the one he gave her then. Maybe irritation. A flash in those blue eyes, that muscle ticking in his jaw. Jealousy, maybe. Something other than the way he was looking at her now. Pleased, verging on amused, he grinned at her. Not a wry smirk, not a sardonic smile. A _grin_ as he stepped closer to her, inching his way into her personal space. "And now you're here."

Oh.

Oh, no.

Buffy backed up immediately, held her palm out flat in front of her, ready to brace against his chest if need be. As if she'd be able to stop him if he was determined to get to her. "Because _you_ got in my head!"

"Is that right?" The grin widened, eyes widening to match. Long lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

"Don't look so shocked." She folded her arms tightly over her chest, arching a brow and lowering her voice. "You knew exactly what you were doing."

Spike chuckled. "Once again, luv, I feel compelled to let you know that I wasn't _doing_ anything. I was bein' your boss." He took another slow sip of his drink, swallowing and gesturing absently toward her with the glass. "What I sent you was about work, nothin' more."

And the most irritating thing? He sounded like he actually meant that.

"There were…undertones," she told him hotly, tightening her grip on her arms and refusing to back down. She'd come over here tonight because she was angry. She was trying hard now to hold onto that anger, to not let the smug look on his face, the roguish glint in his eye, to throw her off her game.

"Undertones? Hardly," he scoffed, stepping in to fill the space her step back had put between them. "It sounds to me like you saw what you _wanted_ to see."

Swallowing hard, tilting her chin up, she lowered her voice to a low murmur. "Which would be what?"

Spike tilted his head to the side, appraised her openly, lashes fanning down over her neck, the swell of her breasts peeking out over the low cut of her blouse before sweeping back up. "You tell me."

Buffy froze in mid-word formation, lips contorting into a soft "O" as she tried to figure out what to say to that. He'd caught her, for the second time tonight. Third time, actually, if she was going to count the text message. Which she guessed she should. It had all led to the same inevitable conclusion.

Her, standing here. In his condo. Frozen to the spot beneath his knowing gaze, letting him look at her like she was lunch.

She'd agreed to go out with Lindsey to avoid thinking about Spike, and all she'd done the entire time she'd been out with Lindsey was think about Spike. And what made that even worse was the fact that he was right. He was so _totally_ right.

 _You saw what you wanted to see._

She had read into Spike's messages. She had expected him to be jealous and possessive and had been disappointed when he hadn't been, so she'd accused him of trying…well, she wasn't even sure what exactly she'd been so sure he was trying to do. Distract her, maybe. Keep her from having a nice time. But the sad fact was that Lindsey had kissed her. After she'd gone back inside, after she'd tried to apologize to him for being distracto girl all night, he'd pulled her into his arms and kissed her. And it had been a good kiss. His lips had been soft and the kiss had been sweet and it had been the perfect balance of tender and strong.

And Buffy'd felt nothing. Not a thing.

Not that she'd expected to, what with the whole lack of sparkage thing that she'd already more than prepared herself for. No, she hadn't been surprised by the nothingness of the kiss. The feeling nothing hadn't so much been the problem as the feeling nothing and then immediately wanting to… _needing_ to feel something.

And when she'd wanted to feel something, she'd come straight here. Straight to him.

God, why did he have to do this? Why did he have to make it so damn hard for her not to want him? Why did he have to do that thing where he looked at her and made her feel like she was standing in front of him stripped stark naked, like he was always just a half second away from grabbing her and shoving her up against the nearest vertical surface.

The way he was looking at her now. The way he was looking at her as he set his drink down beside her purse and stepped even closer to her still. Like a shark, smelling blood in the water.

"You look nice, by the way," he told her softly, his voice silky and low. Lashes fanning down and up again, trailing over her in slow, measured strokes. His eyes found hers again, lips quirking appreciatively. "I like your hair like that." And she watched as he inhaled, nostrils flaring, his hand reaching up as if he was going to wrap a strand of her hair around his finger.

The movement of his hand broke the spell he'd woven around her, and she stepped back again. Just in time to side step his reach.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" He asked, blinking at her. His eyes looking surprised, but his voice still all low and rumbly, as real a caress across her skin as if he'd just went ahead and touched her. "Just said you look nice."

Buffy's lashes fluttered, her body wanting to respond to him saying that. To him telling her again. "You're using your bedroom voice," she mumbled, glad she was wearing flat sandals instead of heels when she felt her shoe catch on the edge of something as she attempted another step backward. "It, it isn't fair."

His immediate response was another slow smirk, another husky purr. "Never said I'd be fair. Not gonna touch you, though, am I?"

 _You don't have to be,_ she thought desperately, trying to remember why it was she came here in the first place. What exactly had she been trying to prove?

"Made a promise. Told you I wouldn't touch you," he murmured softly, inching toward her again. They were almost nose-to-nose now. He breathed in, breathed out, his breath cool and smelling like mint and scotch and smoke. He always smelled faintly of smoke, even though she didn't think she'd ever actually seen him light a cigarette. His lips feathered over hers, bare millimeters away as he breathed, "Not until you came to me."

 ** _-Sunday, July 14th. 12:27pm-_**

"Oh my God, I knew it," Faith crowed, sitting up on the bed, her back suddenly ramrod straight as she pointed at Buffy. "There was no _way_ you could work for someone that hot and _not_ be doing the dirty."

Actually, there were lots of ways she could have been working for Spike and not been "doing the dirty". Lots of ways Buffy should have actively been working toward before that stupid 4th of July party. What she'd been _trying_ to work toward ever since.

And failing miserably at.

"Faith, shh," Buffy hissed on instinct, knowing even as she did that there wasn't anyone around to overhear them. "We aren't…doing the dirty. We aren't _doing_ anything."

Because they weren't. Definitely were _not_. Not anymore, at least.

"Maybe you aren't doing anything now, but you did do _something_." She raised her eyebrows expectantly, looking just way, _way_ too excited about the whole Buffy being a dirty mistress thing. "Right?"

And Buffy, being the dirty mistress that she sort of was, found herself almost appreciating it. Not because she wanted to be anybody's dirty little secret, but because she'd been carrying around this weight, this huge, massive secret all by herself for what felt like so long now. It was kind of nice, honestly. To be able to just talk about it.

So when she felt her lips twitch up a little at her roommate's enthusiasm, she let them. "We…did," she said slowly, still a little hesitant to finally admit it out loud. Then, almost as an afterthought, "Once."

Faith's enthusiasm waned just slightly.

"Once," she repeated emphatically.

Buffy narrowed her eyes at her and nodded. "Yes, _once_." It was a lie, but it was a white lie. White lies weren't bad, right? They were all tiny and small and…white. "And it was totally before I knew who he was. Before either of us knew who either of us were."

Disbelieving, voice flat, Faith raised an eyebrow and murmured, "So you only screwed your smokin' hot, silver fox of a boss _once_."

"Once, before I knew he was my boss." Buffy paused, bit down on her lip. Squeezed her eyes shut with a wince and added in rush, voice small, "And maybe once after."

So much for those little, not so bad white lies.

Faith threw her head back and laughed, kicking her feet out into the mattress giddily. "Oh my God, you're totally a dirty slut." Still laughing, she lowered her eyes back to Buffy's. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip and said, "You're totally the trampy little office slut. I _love_ it." Shaking her head, she leaned back again and winked. "I knew I liked you."

"I am _not_ the trampy office slut, Faith," she countered, laughing a little in spite of herself. Maybe she just needed to say something. Say it, for once, out loud. To someone she should have known would do the exact opposite of judge her over it. Not that Buffy maybe couldn't do with a little good-natured judgment, but she definitely wasn't ready for all that just yet. Leaning further into the pillows again, she sighed. "It was just…the two times. That's all."

"Fine. Two times, that's all, whatever." The dark haired girl pulled her full lower lip into her mouth and nibbled down on it, leaning forward conspiratorially and dropping her voice to a husky hum. "How was he?"

"Faith," Buffy warned.

"You have to give me something," she cried, exasperated, falling back onto the bed dramatically. "Please, B, you're killing me here."

Sighing, fighting the urge to smile like an idiot, Buffy glanced down at the duvet, tracing the floral pattern beside her hand over and over again with the pad of her thumb. Searching for a word, a single word, that would somehow describe Spike in bed without having to _actually_ describe Spike in bed. Finally, she settled on the right one.

Glancing up at her roommate through her lashes, she said, "Perfect."

"God, I hate you so much right now," Faith murmured, deftly batting away the pillow Buffy tossed at her head and laughing, rolling over onto her side and propping her head up in her hand. "So, what _were_ you doing last night with Blondie if you weren't doing him?"

The anxious knots made their presence known in Buffy's stomach once again as she thought about how she wanted to answer that question.

"Something stupid," she said softly, all the mirth from a moment ago draining away and leaving her feeling cold.

 ** _-Sunday, July 14th. 1:03am-_**

Spike's lips were almost pressed against hers. She was so drawn to him, a moth to a flame, her body inching toward his even as her mind kept trying to remind her why it shouldn't. Moving closer, closer, _closer. H_ er eyes drifted shut, she felt his breath fanning over her lips again, felt them ghost ever so lightly across hers.

And then her brain won out, and her eyes snapped open.

"We are so not doing this," Buffy told him, quickly side-stepping and moving smoothly out of the circle of his personal space, walking briskly back toward the counter to pick up her purse.

"Funny," he purred from behind her, having turned around to watch her pick her purse off the counter top. "It looks a bit to me like we are."

"No," Buffy corrected him, drawing the word out slowly. "We are not." She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "You aren't pursuing me, and I am _definitely_ not going to come to you. End of discussion." She turned her back on him, moved for the door. "So you can just cut all this out now, and I'm going to go home and—"

His voice caught her. Honeyed, smooth as silk, wrapping itself around her and tugging her backward. "Buffy."

"Oh, no." She turned to face him, pointing at him with an accusatory finger. "No, don't _Buffy_ me. You don't get to say my name like that."

Amused, he asked, "Like what?"

"Like you're…" she floundered for the right words, gesticulating wildly with her free hand, "reading it out of a dirty book or something."

"Why not?"

"Because." _Why not?_ She had a reason. A host of very, _very_ good reasons. At least she had before he'd started _looking_ at her like that. Now, all she could seem to think of was, "It's skeevy, and wrong. And it makes me feel funny." She scrambled for the next words, letting them tumble from her lips in a rush. " _And_ it's undignified."

Lame. Even she knew that was lame.

Smiling softly at her, looking at her covertly through his lashes, he said softly, "'I'd always rather be happy than dignified.'"

Buffy tried to ignore the way his words, how fluid and musical he somehow made them sound, gave her a full body tingle, shoving the tingles down and opting instead for righteous indignation. "Oh, nice try buddy," she tried for false bravado, planting her hands on her hips. "But that's the wrong Brontë sister."

"Christ," Spike growled good naturedly, "don't tell me you're an Emily girl?" He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Next you'll be spoutin' off about how _A Farewell to Arms_ is so severely underrated and how Fitzgerald is the bloody pinnacle of all great American literature."

Okay, really? A knock against Hemingway _and_ Fitzgerald?

Buffy bristled at that, hands digging even harder into her hips. "Oh, that's hilarious coming from someone who reads Salinger for _fun_."

"The man's a bloody marvel," Spike told her, dropping his eyes level with hers again, his jaw suddenly tense, ticking.

"The man writes lousy narrative, and all."

His eyebrows shot up appreciatively, but he still looked mildly irritated. "Least he wasn't a pretentious sod who spent pages dronin' on and on in flowery language and too-pretty metaphors."

"Whatever," Buffy said dismissively, tearing her gaze away from his. "I didn't come here to argue over your lack of taste in American classics, anyway."

"No," Spike agreed readily, "you came here because I got under your skin tonight."

"No," she countered just as readily, "I came here to tell you that I am not, in no way, under any circumstances, ever, having an affair with you, Spike."

This actually seemed to surprise him.

For the first time since she'd arrived at his doorstep, his eyes widened in genuine disbelief. He stepped back, blinking at her. "I didn't say anythin' about havin' an affair, Buffy."

A little flustered by his genuine shock at her assumption, she covered quickly, folding her arms over her chest and telling him stiffly, "That's what it's called when you repeatedly look to engage in a sexual relationship with a woman who _isn't_ your wife."

Now he looked completely baffled. The expression didn't last long, though, before it shifted to one verging on a lot more than just slightly irritated.

"That's what you think?" he asked her, narrowing his eyes. And she saw it. Just for a second, a brief flash of what might have been rage, and quite possibly a little hurt, in the blue there. "That this is just about _sex_?"

He spat the word out like it left a bad taste in his mouth, making her jump.

"Isn't it?" she challenged him, sounding a lot more confident than she felt.

"No, you _daft_ girl," he hissed, voice growing menacing, "if this was just about sex I can think of much easier ways to get it, from women who are a right lot easier to deal with than _you_."

Now, that was uncalled for.

"How sweet," Buffy grumbled under her breath, trying hard not to let it show. The fact that his words had rattled her a little. The way he'd sounded like it was the most ridiculous, the most _insulting_ thing he'd ever heard.

Spike glared at her. "I'm making a point, you silly bint." Then he reached for her, grabbing her by the elbows. Not pulling her against him, leaving distance between them, but leaning his face down toward hers and forcing her to meet his eyes. "This is in no way just about sex to me, Buffy," he said seriously, scanning her face. "I don't even know how you could think that."

"Don't you?" Buffy asked, remembering a little of her ire from earlier, pulling her arms out of his grip. She stepped backward. "What am I supposed to think, Spike? All the innuendo and the undressing me with your eyes and the provocative green dress texts?"

He frowned more deeply, looking equal parts frustrated and also a little bit sorry now, like maybe he was starting to see where she was coming from. "You honestly think all I want from you is sex?"

Buffy paused, wondering at the look on her boss's face. Not entirely sure how to read all the different emotions passing over his features now. "That's what most people want from affairs."

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

"Christ, quit usin' that _word_ , will you?" Spike growled, suddenly furious. Whirling away from her, he reached up to run his fingers back through his hair, tousling the platinum strands as he did, freeing some of the more unruly curls from the gel. Buffy stood mutely, watching as his shoulders moved up, then down as he breathed deeply. Steadied himself.

"That's not what this is," he finally told her, voice strained, like he was trying very hard to keep control of his temper. "And it's not what I want. Besides that, even if it is what I wanted from you, it couldn't be considered that." He glanced at her from over his shoulder. "To have a _true_ extramarital affair you have to have a marriage that's worth somethin'."

Annoyed by what sounded to her like an excuse, and not just any excuse, but an _oldest line in the book_ excuse, Buffy scoffed. "And yours isn't?"

"My _marriage_ is a bloody joke, Buffy," Spike said, turning back around to face her. His eyes dark, expression unreadable. "It always has been."

Wait. Wait, he was actually talking to her…about this. About his marriage.

Freezing in place, Buffy stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talkin' about the fact that my wife and I don't speak to each other unless it's about work, or money." His eyes flashed again, jaw clenching tight. Like he didn't want to be telling her any of this but for whatever reason felt like he had to. "Talkin' about the fact that we slept in separate rooms for years before I finally decided just to find a place of my own." He sighed, shook his head. "Somewhere I could go to think. Be alone."

He'd barely begun to talk to her about all this and already her head was spinning, trying to digest the information he was giving her. Wait, what did that mean exactly? A place of his own…

He didn't even live with her anymore?

"Here?" Buffy asked slowly, tearing her gaze from his to look around the loft.

Spike nodded, letting his gaze follow hers. "Here."

"No wonder it feels like such a bachelor pad," she murmured, eyes scanning slowly over the record player, still playing that steady, thrumming beat it had been when she'd first walked in.

"Why did you come here tonight?" Spike asked her suddenly, like a light bulb had just gone off. His eyes lighted on her, narrowed slightly.

She frowned at him. "You're deflecting."

"You're the one barged in my door at one in the bloody mornin', luv." He tilted his head to the side. "Think I have a right to ask."

Buffy guessed that much was true. "I-"

"Tell the truth now, pet," Spike told her slowly, voice steady and low as he cut her off. Like he'd already read her mind and known she was working through an excuse of her own, or maybe another denial.

 _Tell the truth._

Okay. Sure.

She could do that.

She was asking Spike to tell the truth, so she could do it, too.

Inhaling deeply, letting the air out slowly through her nose, she squared her shoulders and met his eyes. "I came here tonight because I need to know what you're thinking," she told him honestly. It wasn't a lie. Wasn't a lie, even though it wasn't entirely the truth, either. Not the whole truth anyway. But she was here, and he was talking… _had_ been talking. And now she found that she suddenly really wanted to know. Needed to know. "I need to know what this is. Tell me about your marriage, Spike. Tell me about your wife. Please. I…" And there weren't any other words other than what she'd already told him, she shrugged. "I just need to know."

Spike stepped closer to her, and for a split second she thought he was going to try and kiss her again. Instead, he just reached down and around her waist for his drink, the one he'd discarded on the kitchen counter earlier, picking it back up. He glanced at her, nodded his head. Turned his back and started walking slowly toward the main space of his condo. Buffy heard the ice clinking against the side of his glass as he lifted it to his lips, lowered it again. He sighed.

A beat passed in heavy, mounting silence.

Then, finally, just when she thought she couldn't take it anymore, he said softly, "Not a very happy story, I'm afraid." A wry glance back over his shoulder at her. "Though you've probably sussed out as much for yourself by now."

Buffy sighed in turn, mentally trying to prepare herself for whatever it was he was about to tell her. She removed the strap of her purse from her shoulder once more, moved forward herself, setting it back down on his countertop. She nodded, biting down on the inside of her cheek. "Sort of had that much noodled, yeah."

Buffy found herself holding her breath as she watched him, watching him drop his head, his shoulder sag in resignation before he looked back up. Started to talk.

"I'd been out of University for about a year, year and a half when we met," he began, speaking in a low, measured tone. He wasn't looking at Buffy, but he wasn't exactly avoiding her eyes, either. Just a little distant. Like he was remembering something he'd been trying not to think about for a really long time. "I was young, you know? And I was foolish, and listless and the first time I met Cecily, I thought she was…perfect. I thought she was what I _needed_." He took a thoughtful pause, looking down into his glass. "My life hadn't exactly been…stable, up to that point. What with mum and dad's split, and me bein' so bloody selfish. I'd gotten in some trouble with the law throughout the years. Got worse after I graduated." His eyes flickered to Buffy's. "Nothin' huge, mind you. Just a little too much drinkin', some fighting. But it got bad enough that I felt like I was losin' my grip on things. Then, when mum got sick, I…" he trailed off, raising his glass to his lips for another drink. "Anyway, we started datin', got married a whirlwind six months later and moved to the States right after that."

Buffy kept her eyes on him, taking a few steps further into the living space as she let all that sink in.

Cecily. His wife had a name now. Cecily Pratt.

That was the woman that he'd married…she stopped, quickly did the math in her head, remembered vaguely what he'd told her their first night in the bar. "Twelve years ago."

Spike nodded, looking down into the remaining liquor he was beginning to slowly swirl in his glass.

She let that sink in for another moment before she said it again. Repeated the number of years he'd been married to this woman, Cecily. His _wife_.

She wasn't sure why it surprised her, really. He was more than old enough to have been married that long. He would have only been what, twenty-five? That was plenty old enough to be married. It just…twelve years seemed like such a long time to Buffy. Twelve years ago, she was playing with Barbie dolls and still in gymnastics and God, in the _fifth_ grade.

For the first time in a long time, Buffy felt the full weight of her age. Felt the weight of how _young_ she actually was. It had been a long time since she'd felt her age.

"You've been married for twelve years," she said it again, working through the truth of the words for the last time as she spoke them out loud. Twelve years of very real marriage to a very real woman.

Spike's lips twisted sardonically as he nodded again, finishing his drink and immediately moving toward the bookshelf to pour himself another. Bottle in hand, his back to her, he said, "And we'd been married for a little over a year, the first time I caught Cecily in bed with another bloke."

 _Whoa._

That…hit her harder than she expected.

Buffy felt her chest tighten in a strange way as she stared at the back of his bleached blonde hair. _The first time._ That's what he'd said, right? The first time. As in the first of many times. And he said it so casually, too. So coolly. The way you'd tell someone that your neighbor's house was for sale, or that you'd been considering getting a dog. Like finding the woman he'd been married to for twelve years in bed with another man was just…nothing. A throw away.

"Just the first time I caught her, mind you," he continued, capped the bottle of whiskey and set it down, using the same hand to pick up the glass tumbler once more. "Probably'd been goin' on from word go."

"The first time," Buffy managed, repeating the words aloud hesitantly. And she didn't want to ask, but she also couldn't seem to stop herself. "There were…more times?"

Spike snorted, finally turning back around to face her. "Oh, sure," he said quickly, "lots more." Then he paused, as though considering his attitude about it for the first time. He cocked his head to the side, eyes running over her face. "You know, you think it'd be somethin' I'd be used to by now, yeah? I guess I kind of am. Certainly doesn't surprise me anymore, and it sure as hell doesn't bloody bother me."

And she thought he might actually be telling the truth about that. It didn't seem like an act, or that he was covering for some deep-seated pain the topic of his marriage caused him. He certainly didn't _look_ like it bothered him all that much. Not to talk about, and not that it was happening. Had been happening.

But that could have just been some weird defense mechanism.

"Your wife," Buffy hedged cautiously, the word sounding unnatural on her tongue as she said it. She cleared her throat, stepped a little closer. "Cecily," she corrected, forcing the name out through dry lips. "She's having an affair?"

"Mmm," Spike purred in response, clicking his tongue reproachfully. "There's that word again. _Affair_. Think that implies a longstanding commitment to someone other than her husband, doesn't it?" He pursed his lips and ducked his gaze thoughtfully. "Far as I know she hasn't had that."

Buffy swallowed, a lump in the back of her throat now that hadn't been there a moment ago. "So, just…"

"Just strings of random men," he finished for her, looking up to offer her a strained, tight smile. Another nod. "Random to me, anyway. Don't know exactly how many. Haven't cared enough to ask."

Buffy's chest tightened again, her stomach doing this uncomfortable flippy thing. Wondering a little how he could be standing there and telling her this all so…calmly. Like it meant nothing. Like it didn't make her want to claw Cecily's no doubt stupidly gorgeous eyes out. Like it wasn't absolutely horrible and gut wrenching and _sad_.

But Spike didn't look sad. He looked haunted, true. Jaded, maybe. But he didn't look _sad_.

And for whatever reason, that made it all seem that much worse.

"Oh, _God_ , Spike," Buffy breathed, aching for him suddenly, inexplicably. Forgetting for just a moment that he was her boss and she was his employee and that she shouldn't be standing there listening to this, that she had no right to feel vindicated in any of her actions just because his wife was obviously a complete and total moron, she stepped closer. Fighting every impulse she had to reach for him, bring him into her arms. Her eyes began to burn. "I…I'm so…"

"You're what, pet?" he cut her off, his voice unexpectedly hard. Icy cold. His eyes raked over her, searching for something he must not have found because a second later, he was angry. "Shocked? _Appalled_? Or is it worse than that." He lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes. "Are you feelin' sorry for me now?"

Caught off guard by the abrupt shift in his mood, Buffy stepped back. Blinking, shaking her head, she said, "No." It was a lie, but she wasn't about to tell him that now. Not when that was so obviously the _last_ thing he wanted. "No, I'm…confused." That wasn't a lie. Along with the shock and the abject, chest aching pity, there was also confusion. Lots of it. If Cecily wasn't faithful, if they didn't even speak to each other, then why? Why stay? And now she had to know. Just had to. So she asked, "If it's that bad, if it's _always_ been that bad, then why—"

His eyes flashed and his expression darkened as he cut her off. "Don't ask me a question you know I can't answer."

And just like that, all the anger Buffy'd had stored up, all the fury she'd had fueling her on her way over to Spike's condo earlier that evening came rushing back in a blinding flash, a wave that started at the crown of her head and cascaded down to her toes, flooding her entire body with heat.

"I don't _know_ that you can't answer," she cried, exasperated, her voice shockingly loud in the space between them. At some point, his record had stopped playing, and neither of them had been talking much louder than a low hum. Until now. "Here you are telling me that your marriage is a joke, that it's been a joke for the last twelve years, and yet you won't tell me _why_ you won't just get a divorce and be done with it."

Spike regarded her for a moment, his expression shadowed, unreadable. Finally, he glanced away from her. "It's none of your concern."

That. That was just absolutely hysterical.

And not something she was going to let him get away with.

"You _made it_ my concern," she told him furiously, moving across the room until she was standing directly in front of him, staring up into his face. Making him look at her. "The minute you decided to pursue whatever this is between us, you made it my concern."

Spike responded with a semi-stunned shift, a step backward. Averting his gaze, he opened his mouth immediately to refute her. "I told you, I'm not pursuing any—"

"Oh, Spike, save it," Buffy hissed, folding her arms protectively across her chest. "No more games. I'm so tired of this. Just _tell_ me. Tell me what it is, whatever it is she has on you. Whatever it is you've—" And her eyes and her voice softened at once, word sticking in her throat when she saw the anguish that flashed in his eyes when they rose to meet hers again.

Checking her pride and her rage where she stood, she inched toward him and hesitantly reached up, feathering her fingers over the planes of his cheek as she said softly, "Tell me why you can't leave her."

He turned his head further into her hand on instinct, pressing against it. Stared down at her for an endless moment. The blue of his irises darkened, turning to a gleaming navy as he searched her eyes. And she thought, really thought, that he was about to tell her. Could practically see the words forming.

But then he reached up and pulled her hand away from his cheek, saying harshly, "I just can't, alright?"

 _No,_ she thought pathetically, _Not alright._

Feeing stung, more than a little disappointed, Buffy pulled her hand out of his grip and back to her side. She inhaled, blinking rapidly to clear her blurry vision. "Fine. You just _can't_ ," she spat the words back at him, shaking her head. "Then don't ask me to do something you know I just can't do, either."

And with that, she turned to leave.

"For the last time, Buffy," Spike growled, clearly as out of whatever patience he'd had as she was, "I'm not _askin'_ you to have an affair with me." She heard a slam as he set his drink down and a moment later, his hand flew out to catch her around the wrist. "I'm not askin' you to be the other woman, or my mistress or whatever the fuck else you think it is I'm after."

She turned back to face him, letting him use his grip around her wrist to tug her forward until they were nearly nose to nose. Exhaling slowly, she asked, "Then what _are_ you after, Spike?"

And he looked her dead in the eyes and said simply, "I don't know."

Well. At least he was being honest about it.

Buffy nodded, once more pulling her hand out of his grip, though she did it gently this time. "Then I should go."

She only got about three feet away before Spike spoke again. "'You should try it sometime.'"

Buffy paused, frowning, but didn't turn back around.

Encouraged, maybe, by the fact that she'd stopped walking, he pressed on. "Those were her exact words. 'S what she said to me, Cecily did. The last thing she said to me before I left the house that night." He paused, and when he spoke next, his voice was much closer to her ear than before. "The night I met you."

A cold chill raced down Buffy's back at the implication in his words.

"You should try it…" she trailed off, turning slowly around again. "It. Cheating?"

Spike didn't nod. Didn't acknowledge the truth of her statement in any way, but he didn't really have to. She could see it written on his face. The set of his lips, the storm in his eyes. "She didn't mean it," he said instead, voice soft. "Not really. She was just goadin' me, tryin' to get me to…she's always tryin' to get me to do things like that."

He said it almost flippantly, a sharp edge of irritation in his voice as he glanced away from her. Like it wasn't something that had worked. Whatever it was his wife was always trying to get him to do, it had worked that night. The night they met.

It had worked with _her._

"Oh," Buffy murmured, starting to understand. She blinked several times, starting to feel a little numb. "That's why you started talking to me at the bar."

 _"_ _No_." His eyes snapped back to hers instantly, open and wild. "No, that's not…" Jaw clenched, muscle ticking as he turned his eyes to the ceiling, he sighed. "Christ, this is why I didn't want to tell you."

"Why?" she asked simply, voice level. Flat. "So I wouldn't find out that night we spent together was about revenge sex?"

"No," he said again, more forcefully this time. "That's bloody well not what that night was about. And what she said to me wasn't the only reason I started chattin' you up, either."

That might have been true, too. But it didn't feel like it mattered a whole lot anymore. Buffy shook her head and turned to go once more, saying softly, "It's the only reason I think I need to hear."

"No, no." Instead of grabbing for her this time, Spike skirted around her, moving so quickly it didn't even register in her muddled brain that he'd stepped in front and blocked her path to the door until she collided with the wall of his chest. He caught her by both elbows, keeping her from stumbling, and said severely, "You don't get to do that. Ask me to tell you and then scarper off with your tail between your legs the second you hear somethin' you don't like."

He was right.

He was right, and she knew it. More over, she didn't have the energy in her to argue with him about it. She asked for the truth and he was trying to give it to her, and she couldn't bail now. Not yet. So she settled in, let him halfway support her weight in his hands and looked up at him expectantly, eyes fixed to his, letting him know without saying so that she was there, and she was listening.

"Twelve years, Buffy," he began, both his grip on her arms and his voice intensifying as he spoke. "Twelve _years_ of just…putting up with it. Turnin' the other bloody cheek. Focusin' on my work, on nothin' but my work. And I just…that night, I'd just had it, I think. And I went out, and you were there. And you were so…" he paused for a brief moment to search for the right words, finally settling on, " _Funny_ , and smart and sexy. I think I had more fun in those couple hours with you than I'd had in all those twelve sodding years and I just thought to myself, you know…why not?" His hands started to slide up her arms, his skin soft as it skated over hers, moving up from her elbows to curl around her bare biceps. "What's one night, one time?"

One night. One time.

The words hit her in a funny way, somewhere right in the middle of her chest, making it ache differently than it had before.

"That is all I was, then. A one night stand." Buffy hated the way her eyes had started to burn again, the way her voice sounded shaky with hurt instead of resentment as she said it. "A way to get back at Cecily for treating you like dirt for the last twelve years?"

"That's all you were _supposed_ to be," Spike corrected her meaningfully. A subtle distinction, but probably an important one. "But you drew me in. Dug your way under my skin and stayed there. Feisty and sweet all at once. Soft and strong, and a hell of a lot smarter than I'd even imagined." He softened then, began rubbing slow, soothing circles into her skin with his thumbs. His eyes on hers, holding her completely in his thrall. "You just kept pullin' me closer and closer until you were it, the only thing I could…bloody hell, Buffy, you worked one over on me. Didn't even see it comin'. And I don't know how to navigate this, either," he told her softly, honestly, using her own words from the argument they'd had a week ago. "I've made a lot of wrong calls, and I'm a lot of sodding nasty things but I'm not an unfaithful man. Never have been. Know I'm s'posed to feel guilty and wrong bout it. But I…" he let the sentence hang in the air between them, tugged her a little closer, dropped his voice to a silken whisper. "This, with you? It's not wrong."

And that was her cue.

"Yes, it is," Buffy insisted half heartedly, tearing her gaze away from the captivating power of his. It felt like a cop out as she said it. Like she was just saying it to say it, not because she felt really strongly about it being the right thing to say.

Right was wrong and down was up and all her clear-cut black and white had faded into various shades of grey and she felt more confused, more turned around now than she had before she'd ever demanded the truth from him.

 _Ignorance is bliss._

"Look me in the eyes and say that again."

Buffy forced her head up, meeting his gaze as steadily as she could and whispering sternly, "This is wrong."

Even she could hear it. The catch in her voice. The way the words just didn't quite ring true. And if she could hear it, she knew Spike could. The slight tightening of his grip around her arms let her know he had.

"No," he insisted, "It isn't. My _marriage_ is…it's poison. It's…" His voice dropped impossibly low then, his hypnotic gaze dropping with it, "a glorified fuckin' business arrangement."

She blinked at him, wondering if she'd just heard him right. "What?"

"Nothin'," he said quickly, looking back up at her again. Suddenly in a rush, it seemed. To cover up whatever he thought it was he'd just let slip. "Never mind. It's late." He released her, letting his hands skim over her bare arms one last time before letting go completely. He reached up, ran a hand over his face and said, "You were right, you should go."

But now Buffy was stuck on something. What he'd said just a moment ago. What he'd told her that first day in his office. Calling his marriage a business arrangement. The meeting with the divorce lawyer when he wasn't getting a divorce. When he _couldn't_ get a divorce.

She looked at him, narrowing her eyes slightly. "That first day, in your office. Te very first thing you thought…you asked me if I was trying to blackmail you." Hearing the word made him physically balk, and he immediately turned away from her. She reached out and grabbed him this time, gripping his arm tight and pulling him back around to face her. "What would I have been trying to blackmail you over, exactly?"

"Don't," he warned her, Buffy having clearly touched some nerve. She wasn't sure if it was a warning to drop her line of questioning or to drop his arm.

She didn't do either.

"Why are you afraid of her?" she asked instead, pushing forward.

Spike's eyes flashed. "I'm not."

But Buffy didn't buy that. Not now, not for one second. "Then what _are_ you so afraid of?"

"This isn't about _fear_ , pet. This is about obligation." He did wrench his arm away from her then, rolling his shoulders back and squaring them against her. When she opened her mouth to respond, he cut her off before she could get a single word in with a callous, "You're little more than a child, Buffy. You wouldn't understand."

She gaped at him, furious that he'd use her _age_ of all the stupid, petty things as an excuse to deny her the truth. "You're only fifteen years older than me!"

"With about thirty more years' worth of life experience," he told her coldly.

Buffy scoffed, not entirely sure what else to do. Feeling thrown. First her age, and now her life experience. What excuse would he find next, the color of her finger nail polish? The length of her skirt?

Looking at him in disbelief, she furrowed her brow, narrowed her eyes to slits. "You don't know _anything_ about my life experience."

And it was true. He didn't. That was something Buffy kept very close to her chest, refused to show her cards. Her life was already way too messy without giving out any more of her personal information. But her words, instead of silencing Spike's argument like she'd hoped they would, only seemed to egg him on. Push him forward.

"You're right," he said, voice rough, "I don't. And do you know why?" He jabbed an accusatory finger at her, eyes dark navy, blazing as he answered his own question. "Because you keep shuttin' me out even though you're absolutely _dying_ to let me in."

Buffy stumbled, choking on the words she'd been about to say because they weren't at all relevant anymore. How had he done it again? Managed to turn this back around on her? This was about _him_. Not her. Not her inability to open up, not her keeping some things to herself. This was about him and his marriage and what he wanted and in no way was this about _her_.

"I-I'm not," she stammered, caught off guard once again by one of his insanely mercurial mood shifts.

"You are," he argued, and then began to advance on her. Slowly. "You want this. You _want me._ You want all the things you know I can give to you." He backed her up until she felt the side of his marble counter top digging into her lower back. Pinned, no where to go, she could only stand there and stare up at him, letting his words trickle and shimmy down her spine. "You want to let me in, luv. _All_ the way in. Into your mind as much as your body. You want to shudder and cry out and cling to my back; wrap your legs around my waist, come apart in my arms." He leaned in very close to her then, his pupils dilated, eyes black, and whispered, "You just don't want to be responsible for it."

Buffy slapped him.

Reached out on impulse and struck him across the face, her palm landing with a loud, satisfying _smack_ against the smooth curve of his cheek.

And without missing a beat, Spike grabbed her by the wrist and jerked her against him, crashing his lips roughly down to hers.

She fought him. For a moment, she fought him. Struggled in his arms as he brought her wrist around, looped her arm behind his neck. Tried only half heartedly to shove him away even as he swept a strong hand up her back to hold her in place. But when his tongue flicked out, when he ran it greedily against the seam of her lips, she parted them for him instantly with a throaty moan and melted into his embrace.

He kissed her hard, mercilessly, using the length of his body to pin her against the counter. She clutched at him, one hand digging into the nape of his neck while the other twisted in the fabric of his shirt. And it felt good, this wild, aggressive kiss. Felt good to give into him for a moment.

A moment that stretched into two. Then three.

When he finally tore his mouth from Buffy's, he left her dazed, lips swollen, gasping for air. Seemingly satisfied, he reached up and threaded his fingers in her hair to keep her head still, to keep her eyes on his. "I didn't bloody ask you to come here tonight," he growled, his own chest heaving in time with hers. "You came here on your own. You came to _me_." He leaned in and kissed her once more. Hard, purposeful, quick. Then pulled back again to say, "So you can act as high and mighty as you like, but don't pretend I'm the only one doin' anythin' less than proper here."

Eyes flashing, going wide, realizing just what exactly had happened, that she'd just stood there and let him practically manhandle her, Buffy began to struggle against him. "Let me go."

"Gladly," he said, and released his hold on her immediately as he stepped back. Eyes black, chest still heaving, he shook his head as he took in her disheveled appearance. "You've no business bein' here until you're ready to admit out loud what you already know in that head of yours."

"There's nothing to admit," she said heatedly, the lie leaving her lips so second nature that she hardly even noticed how insensitive it sounded. Frustrated, fighting to right her lopsided skirt, to calm the fire raging in her gut and flaring across her cheeks, she kept her gaze locked on his. Reached up to run a slightly shaky hand through her tangled hair.

And Spike just looked at her, his lips set in a thin line as his brow furrowed, he shook his head again. She would have missed it if she hadn't been paying attention. The brief flash of pain in his eyes just before his expression suddenly became unreadable. He sniffed, angled himself away from her and said, voice unsteady, "I trust you can see yourself out by now."

Just like that, all the raging, fury fueled wind rushed out of her sails. Because somehow, someway, she'd hurt him. She'd hurt him and she hadn't meant to. Hadn't wanted to. Not really.

Not that it mattered now.

She sighed, lashes fluttering shut as she steadied herself before calling out to him. "Spike—"

"We're done here," was all he said, turning his back completely on her and moving across the condo. She opened her eyes just in time to watch numbly as he disappeared into his bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

 ** _-Sunday, July 14th. 12:30pm-_**

Buffy was scanning through her phone, glancing at the various text messages that had been left there by Dawn. All from Dawn.

She didn't want to admit it, but she'd been more than hoping one of them might have been from Spike.

No such luck.

Ten messages on her phone, and each and every one of them was from the sweetly, if not super annoyingly, persistent younger Summers. Buffy was going to have to call her back soon. No more being avoidy girl. She set the phone down once more, eyes meeting the dark gaze of her roommate.

Faith's eyes were sympathetic, her face confused as she continued to stare at Buffy. "So it's over then," she said slowly, dark brows knitting together. "You and Spike?"

 _You and Spike_.

She wished it didn't have such a nice ring to it.

"Yeah," Buffy mumbled, remembering the look on Spike's face last night. The haunted look in his eyes, the pained set of his lips as he'd kicked her out of his condo the night before.

 _"_ _We're done here."_

She sighed, flicked her gaze back up to Faith again and nodded. "Yeah, it's over."

 ** _-Sunday, July 14th. 1:10pm-_**

Once Faith had given her a somewhat awkward, if not completely well intentioned sideways hug, she'd had to get up and leave for work, leaving Buffy once again alone with her thoughts.

After being alone with her thoughts for a grand total of three minutes, Buffy had finally worked up the nerve to call her little sister back. Even enduring the nearly ten minutes of the beginning of the phone call which consisted mainly of Dawn scolding her over ignoring her several phone calls and more than several text messages was preferable to jumbled mess of thoughts tumbling around in her brain, to the ever present lump that seemed to accompany the anxious knots in her gut, so she'd settled back down into her pillows and listened. Then gradually began to answer her sister's questions about the night before.

About the date.

"I don't know, Dawnie," she was saying now, staring blankly up at the ceiling. I wanted to like him. I _did_ like him. He was totally sweet, and a complete gentleman." She sighed, reaching one hand up to press against her forehead. "He just…"

"Okay, stop right there," Dawn warned her suddenly, cutting her off. "If the words 'he's just not Angel' are about to come out of your mouth, I'll fly across the country and kick your butt myself."

Buffy laughed at that. A short, sputtering little sound, because it had caught her so off guard. And becaude it so hadnt been what she'd been thinkjng. " _No_ ," she said emphatically, letting her hand delve into her hair, pulling it back away from her forehead. "No, definitely not what I was going to say. He's just…he kissed me at the end of our date. And it was nice." She paused, trying to think about what she wanted to say. Exhaling through her nose, she continued, " _Really_ nice. But—"

"But that was it," Dawn supplied for her.

Buffy nodded even though she couldn't see her. "Yeah."

"Is there someone else?"

"What?" Buffy asked, thrown by the question even though not even an hour ago it had been the exact same conclusion her roommate had come to. She shook her head, again even though she knew Dawn couldn't see her. "No. No, I just think that…"

And her phone buzzed against her ear, the sound making her jump, cutting her off. Buffy shifted the phone away from her ear, rolling over onto her stomach and glancing down at it.

One new message.

From Spike.

Freezing, lowering the phone down to her mattress and flipping it on to speakerphone, she mumbled something verging on incoherent to her little sister as she opened up the message and read through it. Once, twice. Three times.

 **Spike. 7/14 1:12pm** _I'm sorry, luv._

She blinked rapidly, re-reading the words again. Shocked. Both by the fact that he'd texted her when he'd seemed so obviously, so entirely done with her last night.

And also a little shocked that he'd apologized. Not that he'd never apologized to her before, but he'd never apologized when he hadn't actually done anything wrong. She stared down at her phone, the anxious knots twisting and releasing, melting into little, beating butterfly wings as she thought about the question Dawn had just asked.

 _Is there someone else?_

"Okay, yeah," Buffy murmured into the speakerphone, inhaling deeply as she admitted it out loud, "I think there might be."

Her phone buzzed again, another new message from Spike. Another before she'd even come up with a response to the first one. She swallowed, clicking the new message open. The first part was just an address. A street she vaguely recognized, that she knew was somewhere over in Beacon Hill.

The second part of the message had her breath catching in her throat.

 **Spike. 7/14 1:15pm** _Meet me here at 3:00 today and I'll explain everything._

What could have brought on such a total and complete change of heart, Buffy wasn't sure. She also wasn't sure it mattered. If he was willing, if he was wanting to explain everything to her, who was she to sit around and argue about the why?

On the other end of the line, Dawn sounded confused. "There is someone else, or there _might_ be someone else?"

"Umm," Buffy mused, squinting down at the words on her phone's screen. "I'm not sure yet."

"Ooo, juicy. Tell me about this someone else," Dawn was saying, and Buffy could hear some muffled sounds in the background. Traffic sounds. Dawn was probably walking along Main street, maybe doing some shopping. Maybe going to meet a friend for lunch. "What's his deal?"

"There's no…deal." Buffy answered stiffly, still wondering what exactly it was she was supposed to be saying in response to the texts she'd received from said _someone with no deal_. Even though there was a deal. There was a big, _big_ deal. She sighed, rolling over onto her back, bringing her phone up over her head so she could keep staring at it. "Things are just complicated."

As if _that_ wasn't the most understated of understatements.

"Do you like him?" her little sister asked, making the question sound so easy. So simple.

And the response came easy, too. Just as simple.

"I do, yeah," Buffy admitted it softly, but out loud. Ou loud for the second time. She swallowed, nodding her head and closing her eyes to say more quietly, "A lot."

 _Too much._

"Does he like you?"

Another vibrating buzz in her hands, and her eyes fluttered open to read the new message.

 **Spike. 7/14 12:20pm** _Please, Buffy._

Her lips quirked into a small smile as she read it again and said, "He does."

There was a beat, a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, finally, "That doesn't sound so complicated to me."

She almost laughed out loud.

"No," Buffy agreed, the small smile slowly falling from her lips as she considered that. "I guess when I put it like that it doesn't."

She'd oversimplified it, sure. Made it sound so completely uncomplicated. Girl meets boy. Girl likes boy. Boy likes girl. Easy, simple. Not at all like how it actually was.

"So what's stopping you then?" Dawn asked. Again, point blank. Making it sound so easy. So _simple_.

Buffy re-read Spike's message one final time, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth and nibbling on it before pressing reply, typing out her single word response.

 _Okay._

"I'll let you know when I figure that out," she told her sister quietly, hitting send.


	11. Chapter 11

**_-Sunday, July 14th. 3:04pm-_**

Buffy nearly talked herself out of going.

Twice.

Once while she was scrambling to get dressed, wondering what one was supposed to wear to a meeting of the minds on why your boss-mentor-pseudo lover couldn't divorce his serial cheating wife. She'd settled on jeans and a plain white t-shirt, thinking the more unassuming the better. And once again, while she was trying to navigate her way through Beacon Hill. She felt completely out of her element as she wandered down the older cobblestone streets, periodically peeking down at the map she had on her phone to make sure she wasn't totally turned around. It was one of the swankier parts of town, Buffy knew, because it was one of the neighborhoods Faith walked dogs in on weekend afternoons.

She was surprised to find the address Spike had sent her was to a house. A townhouse, more specifically. A two story brick townhouse with a red door and black shuttered windows complete with window boxes, filled with bright bunches of daisies and vibrant red poppies.

She wasn't sure what exactly she'd been expecting, but this little townhouse…it hadn't been it.

Likewise, she wasn't sure what to expect when she approached the red door and pressed her thumb into the doorbell.

But the stunning, ethereal looking woman with dark hair and cat-like eyes who opened the door a moment later… _definitely_ wasn't it.

"Hello," the woman said whimsically, her eyes open, expectant. Very, very blue as they raked over Buffy's face, pinned her to the doorstep with a quiet kind of intensity that shocked her with its strength.

"U-umm," Buffy stammered, stunned. Unsure how she'd managed to get so turned around even after being so careful. "Hi. Sorry, I-"

"Who are you looking for, little girl?" The woman with the magnetic eyes asked, cutting Buffy off. She didn't say it condescendingly. She said it gently, her voice melodious and lilting with the hint of an accent as she pressed one delicate hand to the side of the open doorjamb, cocked her head to the side.

And Buffy was frozen.

"I'm…I'm sorry." She leaned over, glanced at the address to the side of the door. Checked it once more against the text message open on the screen of her phone to make sure it was the same. It was. Which did approximately nothing to soothe her confusion, or unfreeze her legs. "I must have gotten the wrong address."

"Mmm," the other woman purred softly, righting her head again. A soft smile curved her lips. "You do look a bit lost."

Buffy had the distinctly unnerved feeling that she meant more than just physically lost. It might have been the knowing way the older woman was staring at her. Like she knew her already. Like she knew everything about her, could see right through her skull and directly into her brain. Read her thoughts.

All she could so was stare and blink a lot as she murmured, "I'm supposed to be meeting someone."

"Oh, yes," the woman said, pulling her hand off the doorjamb and smiling more widely. Still doing that thing where it felt like she was seeing a whole lot more than what was simply in front of her. "You're exactly where you're supposed to be."

Frowning deeply, Buffy opened her mouth to speak again, to apologize once more for having gotten the wrong house, when another voice sounded from somewhere inside the house.

"Oh, for bloody's sake, Dru," Spike's voice was a welcome surprise, cutting through the spell that had inexplicably wrapped itself around Buffy in the time she'd been glued to the door step, making her jump. Her eyes instinctively shifted to look at him from over the dark haired woman's shoulder. He wasn't looking at her, though. His eyes were fixed on the other woman. "You're goin' to scare her off."

The woman, still smiling, turned around and gazed at him over her shoulder. Spike narrowed his eyes at her. "Haven't you already done enough?" he asked, his voice low, verging on a growl. The woman, the one he'd called Dru, made a short little mewling sound at him, something between a huff and a giggle, then turned back to give Buffy one last knowing smile before floating away from the doorway. Buffy stared after her, watching her disappear into the house and leaving Spike in her place, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his eyes turned down to the ground. She wasn't sure where to look. If she should try and force eye contact, or if she should just stand there and wait until he was ready to look at her.

Things were awkward. So much more awkward than she'd expected them to be, and she felt like she didn't know what to do with her hands. Alternating between gripping her purse strap, stuffing them into her jean's pockets, hooking her thumbs through her belt loops.

After the much too long moment of silence, Spike sighed, turned his eyes up to meet hers.

And the wealth of different emotions she saw reflected there nearly took her breath away.

"Hi," he said stiffly.

"Hi," she said back.

Another extended, awkward moment passed between them as they gazed at each other. She kept her eyes glued to his, trying to read, decipher what she was seeing there. Remorse, pain, bare flickers of anger…though Buffy couldn't tell if it was directed at her now, the way it had been last night, or at someone or something else.

Finally, Spike shifted out of the open doorway and gestured with his arm. At her furrowed brow, he said, "You should come inside."

Buffy did as he asked without really thinking about it, stepping up off the doorstep and into the townhouse's foyer, letting Spike push the front door shut behind her as she did. She took a minute to glance around. There was a narrow whitewashed wooden staircase straight ahead that led up to the second story, a hallway to her right that looked like it led into the main living space and a room to her left that looked like the library, maybe, stacked floor to ceiling in books from what Buffy could see.

She jumped when Spike suddenly placed his hand on the small of her back. He leaned toward her, his voice low in her ear. "In here," he said, exerting the slightest hint of pressure on her back to guide her through the foyer and through the open doorway to her right, into the next room. She allowed him to steer her, still feeling just a little too confused by what was happening, who's house this was, who exactly the beautiful dark haired woman was and why exactly Buffy was here to argue with him about any of it as they stepped into the sitting room.

Her eyes scanned the room quickly, taking in as much as possible. A large, old fashioned settee in a pink floral pattern sat against one wall, a baby grand piano sat in the space in front of a bay window. Two tufted chairs in lush green fabrics, an antique coffee table set up with a china tea set on top of it. Three tea cups on top of that. And the graceful dark haired woman standing at the center of the room, hands folded expectantly in front of her, mesmerizing eyes glued to Buffy.

And she figured it out, then. That whoever this woman was, this was her home.

"Right then." Spike pulled his hand away from Buffy's back, leaving her feeling bizarrely cold as he stepped around her and came to stand in between the two women. "I s'pose some introductions are in order. Drusilla," he said her name stiffly, like he was irritated with her as he gestured with his hand, "this is Buffy Summers."

"Lovely to finally meet you," Drusilla hummed, unfolding her hands to extend one out to her, the fingers long and pale and elegant. "You're even brighter than I expected you to be."

The compliment caught Buffy off guard even as she stepped forward instinctively, slipping her hand into the older woman's. Brighter than she'd expected. What did she mean by that? It was strange. This woman was strange. Alluring and warm, obviously friendly.

But strange.

"Buffy, this is Drusilla," Spike completed the introduction, his eyes were narrowed to nearly to slits now as he focused on the darker woman. "My sister."

Buffy replayed that in her head once. Twice.

His sister. Oh.

 _Whoa._

Buffy frowned and glanced back and forth between the two of them, immediately looking now for the family resemblance. It was easier to spot now that she knew what to look for. Brother and sister. That actually made sense. They had the same hypno eyes, the same high cheek bones and strong jaws. And Spike's eyebrows were so dark, she figured his hair was naturally probably the same nearly black as Drusilla's was.

"Your…sister," Buffy echoed numbly, pulling her hand out of Drusilla's colder one and back to her own side.

"Oh, don't tell me," she vibrated, voice low, amused. She turned back toward Spike. "He hasn't mentioned me? Of course he hasn't." Drusilla pouted. "Honestly, William, you'll hurt your sweet sister's feelings."

Spike gave Buffy a look then turned around, met his sister's eyes unwaveringly. "I'd be far more worried about hurting your feelings, Dru, if I thought you had any."

"Spike," Buffy reprimanded him immediately, without thinking, shocked at the callousness in his voice.

But Drusilla merely tutted at him, unfazed, turned back toward Buffy with a wry smile quirking her lips. "Don't mind, Willie," she said, turning her back and moving in a graceful gait toward the floral settee. "He's just sour because he hadn't planned on inviting you over here to have our little chat until I talked him into it."

"Talked me into it," Spike repeated, his voice rising in pitch as Buffy watched his eyes flash. " _That's_ what you call what you did?"

Drusilla whirled to face her brother, the smile falling from her lips, her eyes narrowing in turn at the anger in his voice. "I was tired of you hemming and hawing over it. The poor child deserves to know what's going on."

"So you trick her into showin' up here," he snapped at her impulsively, hands curling into fists at his sides.

And it only took a moment for Buffy to figure it out. To put two and two together.

"Those texts," she murmured, casting a sidelong glance at the man standing beside her. "They weren't from you."

Spike turned back toward her, his eyes softening around the edges as they took in the expression on her face. He sighed, shoulders sagging.

"First one was," he admitted, his voice softening just as his eyes had as he continued to look at her. "Nipped into the kitchen for all of five sodding seconds, left my bloody phone out here." He gestured back toward his sister with a jut f his chin and said, "Didn't even realize what sack of hammers over there had done until you rang the bell."

"Oh, please," Drusilla breezed, dropping down in a fluid spin onto the settee, folding her hands across her lap. "You'll thank me once all is said and done." Her eyes shifted to Buffy. "You _both_ will."

And that had Spike growling, actually growling, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he turned back to face his sister again. "When was the last time you recall me thankin' you for gettin' involved in something that isn't any of your sodding business?"

Drusilla eyed him steadily, eerily unflappable as she said, "My family is my business, William."

He raised his eyebrows a little like he wanted to say _is that so_. Instead, though, he planted both hands on his hips and demanded hotly, "And that involves Buffy _how_ exactly?"

And her eyes widened in response, dark lashes fluttering. "After all it sounds like you've put her through, she deserves to know the _truth_." She emphasized the word in a weird way, a way that made the hair on the back of Buffy's neck stand up. "The truth about you, that wife of yours. Your situation, Will—"

"Dru," Spike said, his dropping to a dangerous low as he cut her off, pursing his lips and hollowing his cheeks out.

Ignoring her brother's growing ire, Drusilla leaned forward and picked up the elegant rose patterned china teapot, tilting it down to fill one of the cups with steaming, fragrant liquid. "And _you_ deserve to have some of that giant weight you're carrying lifted off your shoulders."

And he leaned toward her in return, one hand braced on his hip and the other jabbing a hard finger in her direction. Biting out a harsh, "That isn't _your_ decision to make."

"Hoo-kay," Buffy said quickly, interrupting before either of the bickering siblings could get another word in edgewise. Starting to back up as two equally too-blue pairs of eyes turned toward her. "So, I've clearly walked in on some sort of family…thing." She hiked her purse further onto her shoulder, shakily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I really don't want to interrupt. So I'll just…" she trailed off, turned on her heel and fled back toward the foyer.

Not surprisingly, Spike caught up to her before she could make it to the front door. One warm, firm hand wrapping gently around her arm to stop her as he said, "Buffy, wait."

"Why?" she asked on an exasperated sigh, letting him pull her back around to face him. "You didn't actually even want me here."

"Well, no, I didn't," he said quickly, but adding just as quickly before she could say anything, " _But_ that's…I meant what I said, yeah? I am sorry about last night." Spike let go of her arm, tucking his hand back into his jacket pocket and ducking his gaze. "About what I said to you."

She watched him for a minute, taking in the set of his lips, the way his shoulders sagged forward. He looked so tired to her in that moment. Different than the night before. Not anguished or angry, just…tired.

And Buffy felt tired, too.

Sighing, folding her arms across her chest, she said, "But you _still_ aren't going to explain all this to me."

And then it was his turn to sigh, letting his eyes fall shut as he shook his head. "It's for your own good, Buffy."

But she was starting to believe that less and less the more he said it. After hearing what Drusilla'd had to say, the way she'd insisted Buffy deserved to know the truth of Spike's situation. Those words were sticking with her now.

"Well, your sister doesn't seem to think so," she argued, tightening her arms. Watching with a raised brow expression as Spike's eyes fluttered open and found hers again.

"My _sister_ ," he rumbled, "shouldn't stick her nose where it bloody well doesn't belong. My private relationships, included."

The words struck her as odd. _Private relationships_. They made her feel weird, dirty. A weird, dirty secret. Which she guessed she kind of was. Which also didn't exactly sit well with her, and then there was the fact that his sister very obviously knew about her being his weird, dirty secret. That was starting to rattle her a little.

What all had he told her?

"So, she knows…" Buffy trailed off, suddenly uncomfortable about bringing it up. She cleared her throat and glanced toward the front door, eyes trailing over the wood grain. "About your private relationships, I mean."

Spike jumped on that instantly. "Did I say relationships? Silly. I meant relationship." She turned back to look at him, met his eyes briefly as they caressed her face, lips curving up slightly for the first time since she'd arrived at the door step as he murmured, "Just the one."

Her heart swelled a little at the words, but she shoved that down immediately, forced it away. Hated that she wanted so badly to take the words and wrap herself up in them. Instead, she ignored the heart swelling thing, forced herself to acknowledge the fact that the words didn't really mean anything. Couldn't mean anything as long as he couldn't get a divorce, and that was why she was here anyway, wasn't it? To find out exactly why that was.

"I'm not sure we can call what's going on between us a relationship, Spike," she said softly.

"You know what, you're right," he agreed, nodding. "Dirty, adulterous affair it is." And now His eyes were suddenly doing that twinkling, dancing thing she'd seen them do so many times before.

"Funny," Buffy said wryly, fighting the urge to eye-smile with him. Trying to remember her frustration. Trying to remember how tired she was of his deflecting. "My point was that…she knows about me. About us." She shifted from one foot to the other. "About what we've…"

"She does," Spike filled in the rest for her, whether because he saw how uncomfortable saying the words out loud was making her or because he didn't want to hear her saying them, she wasn't sure. "Drusilla and I, we…" He paused then, tilting his head to the side. Thinking about what he wanted to say, maybe. A beat passed. Then, "Will you think less of me if I admit to tellin' my older sister everything?"

And Buffy laughed at that. At him. A short little sputtering sound, because he looked so sheepish and so childlike, with his dancey eyes and his awkward half-smile, and she just nodded. "Believe it or not, I actually totally get that." She bit down into her cheek, quirked her lips. "Except I'm the older sister in the scenario."

Spike's voice was very soft when he asked, "Yeah?"

Buffy nodded again, uncrossing her arms. "Yeah. My little sister, Dawn. She tells me everything, too."

 _I'm the one who's big with the secret keeping,_ she thought guiltily, thinking of the conversation she'd had with her sister earlier that day.

Spike's eyebrows shot up and he stepped almost imperceptibly closer to her. "I didn't know you had a sister."

No, of course he hadn't. Because Buffy hadn't actually shared anything private with Spike at all.

"Guess that makes us even then," she said simply, then noticed the way he was looking at her. Like he'd never actually seen her before. She frowned, asked him, "What?"

Smirking at her knowingly, he inched a little closer to her and looked at her through his lashes. Looking like he'd just read her mind. "Is Buffy Summers actually _sharin'_ something?"

She raised a brow at him. "Me having a little sister isn't exactly a deep, dark secret." Then she switched tactics, amending quickly, "Unless you think it is, and now we're all uneven again. In which case you should probably share your deep, dark _why-I-can't-leave-my-marriage_ secret with me now."

"Nice try," he told her sardonically, then paused, sighed. "We all have to have someone we can talk to, yeah? Nobody quite understands what it's like for me." He tossed a glance over his shoulder back toward the sitting room, to the woman still in there. "Not like Dru does."

He had to stop saying things like that. He had to stop saying such quietly sincere things. Had to stop sounding so sweet and gentle, and he had to stop looking so sheepish and adorable.

Buffy's tongue darted out to wet her lips and she rubbed them together. Then, not entirely sure where the sentiment was suddenly coming from, she said softly, "I could."

Spike snapped his head back around, stormy eyes meeting hers. "Buffy—"

"I could understand," she insisted, some kind of last ditch effort to get him to come clean with her. "Or I could _try_ to at least, if you'd just tell me what it is that's really going on here."

"Nothin' good can come from me tellin' you, luv," he told her seriously, dropping his voice to a low purr. And he inched closer to her again. He was so close now that they were nearly nose to nose. "I don't see why you can't just trust me."

"I _do_ trust you, Spike," she half-shouted, suddenly incensed. His words had struck a chord with her. Made her angry. Reminded her that she _was_ angry. "That's the problem. That's why I got up and rushed all the way over here the second I got a text from you, or…thought I got a text from you, or whatever. _Because_ I trust you." She shifted backwards, away from him. Needing the space. "Because I thought you were finally going to tell me the truth."

"I did tell you the truth, pet," he said, refusing to raise his voice to match hers. His eyes open, way too earnest as they searched hers. "Last night. I told you the truth."

"No," she countered, drawing the word out. "You only told me the partial truth. You think _I'm_ shutting you out? Please. Try being on the not knowing end of all this." She waved her hand around them, encompassing the entire stupid, twisty situation.

"Better'n bein' on the knowing end," Spike said gruffly, his jaw clenching as he looked away from her.

"No, Spike," she told him, shaking her head. "It isn't. It really, _really_ isn't."

Because it wasn't. She firmly believed at this point that not knowing was far, far worse than knowing.

Not that Spike would probably ever agree with her if the way his eyes were blazing as he looked at her now was any indication.

"What good is tellin' you gonna do me, Buffy?" Spike demanded passionately, still not raising his voice but sounding like whatever grip he had on his control was beginning to slip. "What good is it gonna do _you_?" He scoffed then, shaking his head. "The truth isn't goin' to change anything, pet. Believe me, if it were, I'd'a told you a long time ago."

But that answer just wasn't good enough for Buffy anymore.

"What about what Drusilla said?" she asked, leaning around him, gesturing back toward the sitting room demonstratively. "About getting some of the weight off your shoulders, or whatever. Sounds like it'd be helpful to me."

Spike raised his brows, tilted his head back to look at her. "And what about you?"

"I don't know," she murmured thoughtfully, tearing her gaze away from his. "I think…maybe I wouldn't feel so guilty if I knew…"

"What?" Spike snorted, and she could picture the look on his face, the narrowed eyes and the set of his lips, even with her eyes averted. "Knowing my wife sleeps with other blokes every chance she bloody gets innit enough to make you feel less guilty?"

Annoyed, sucking her cheeks in, she glared up at him. "Or maybe it'd make me feel guiltier and we could just stop this whole thing now, I don't know!" She paused, took a deep breath. "I just can't be in this weird limbo anymore."

Spike reached for her. Both hands wrapping around her elbows, tugging her toward him. He leaned down to catch her eyes, lowering his voice. "I told you before, Buffy." He squeezed her arms gently. " _This_ isn't what's wrong here."

She forced herself to hold eye contact with him and whispered, "If you really believe that you'll tell me _why_."

His eyes flashed. "I _can't_."

Her eyes narrowed. "Can't or won't?"

"What's the bloody difference?" he asked, his jaw clenching hard.

"You know what, fine," Buffy said, pulling her arms out of his grip and turning away from him. She stepped toward the door. "Forget it."

"Don't be cross with him, lovely," Drusilla's dreamy voice floated to Buffy's ears, stilling her progress forward. She stopped, turned back around to see the older woman standing in the entryway to the sitting room, her eyes focused on Spike. "My William so rarely ever knows what's good for him. Why we're in this mess in the first place, you know."

"This mess," Buffy repeated, drawing the words out, pinning Spike with a hard look. "Meaning the marriage you can't get out of?"

He nodded but didn't meet her eyes. "That'd be the one."

"Yes, yes, the marriage he can't get out of," Drusilla tittered, her eyes bright, lips curved in a wide smile. "Oh, but there's so much more to it than that."

Frowning, Buffy hissed, "What, does being cryptic run in the family or something?"

"Dru just likes her riddles, is all," he muttered derisively, eyes focused on his sister.

"And he quite enjoys his games," his sister returned simply.

 _Truer words have ne'er been spoken._

"Seems that way," Buffy muttered, looking back and forth between the two of them before finally sighing, reaching a hand up and pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "Alright, _William_ ," she said slowly, drawing his given name out specifically as she dropped her hand down. "Are you gonna tell me, or should I just go?"

"Brilliant," Spike muttered, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "Now I have you two gangin' up on me?"

Drusilla shared a knowing look with Buffy, smiling softly at her even as she turned around and disappeared back into the other room, leaving Spike and Buffy alone in the foyer once more.

"What are you so worried about?" she asked him finally when she couldn't handle the silence anymore.

And she was fully prepared for him to make something up. To come up with another stilted excuse about how he was worried about her, how he was keeping the truth from her for her own benefit.

So she was surprised when Spike dropped his eyes to the floor and admitted, "I'm worried about what you'll think of me after I tell you."

Buffy frowned deeply, confused all over again. It was like they just kept talking this in circles. "You _just_ said telling me wasn't going to change anything."

Spike sighed, turned his eyes up toward hers again. "Said it wouldn't change the _circumstances_ , pet." He tilted his head to the side and dropped his voice to a whisper, his eyes searching hers. "Didn't say it wouldn't change how you feel about me."

"How I feel about you," she echoed, the words feeling a little like a challenge as she said them. Like he knew so well how she felt about him? Buffy wasn't even sure exactly how she felt about him.

Except she sort of was sure.

She just wasn't sure she wanted to be.

But Spike just nodded, entirely unfazed. "How you feel about me."

Well, that was something at least. That was something that felt true. Honest. That he didn't want to tell her because he was afraid it would change the way she looked at him. That made sense.

Made sense, and also had the anxious, twisting knots that had been hanging out all morning in her stomach back in all their twisty, knotty glory.

"So you think if you tell me I won't like you anymore?" she asked him, nibbling thoughtfully on her lower lip.

Spike chuckled a little at that, but it sounded slightly too strained to be honestly amused. "Something like that, yeah."

Now they were finally getting somewhere.

Buffy reached toward him instinctively, looping the index finger of her right hand around the index finger of his left. She looked up to meet his eyes, taking in the look on his face as she told him simply, "There's only one way to find out."

 ** _-Sunday, July 14th. 4:31pm-_**

Buffy sat in one of the green tufted chairs, a cup of tea she felt like she wasn't even sure how to drink balanced in its matching saucer on her lap. Drusilla had draped herself across the settee, her elbow propped on the edge, hand resting against her temple. Spike was pacing back and forth in the open space in front of them both, looking like he had no idea what to say. Where to start.

Looking already like he regretted agreeing to this.

"If I were you," the dark haired woman began once the ticking of the grandfather clock had gotten to be too much, too loud in the room, making a show of examining her perfectly manicured nails, "I would just come right out and say it."

Spike stopped his pacing just long enough to cast his sister an annoyed look before turning and finally settling his eyes on Buffy. He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, let it slowly out through his mouth. Then asked, "How much do you know about Pratt Publishing's history?"

Frowning, her head already leaping forward, imagining all the ways Pratt Publishing could be involved in all this, she shook her head. "Umm, I know a little. I know when it was founded. I know that they used to only print text books. Umm," she dropped her eyes down to the cup in her hands, tapping her fingernail absently against the china, "I know that it wasn't exactly…majorly successful or anything. Not for the first fifteen years or so, at least." She glanced back up at him. "Not until—"

"Not until I bought it," Spike said, cutting her off.

Leaving her stunned.

She gaped at him, opening her mouth to say something. Closing it. Opening it again. Finally, she shook her head, furrowed her brow and asked, " _What_?"

"'Not majorly successful' is putting it very nicely, pet," he told her, a tight smile playing across his lips and his eyes never leaving her face. "It was drowning. The company itself was hemorrhaging money, and Dad had tied up all his assets in it. He was going to lose it all. Everythin' he'd been workin' toward. Days away from declaring bankruptcy." He paused then and tore his gaze away from hers, dropping his voice to a low whisper. "And it would've been my fault."

From over to her right, Drusilla made a soft mewing sound drawing Buffy's attention away from the bleached blonde in front of her and over to the other woman.

"Can you see it, Buffy?" she asked pensively, her wide, blue eyes focused intently on the slight sag of Spike's shoulders as he continued to stare at the floor. "Just there. That spinning blue and green orb...the entire world seated on his shoulders."

Buffy took the cue and turned to look again, and when she did this time, she felt like she could see it.

But Spike just shook his head and said, "You know it's true, Dru."

"How?" Buffy asked, not understanding how Henry Pratt nearly going bankrupt could have anything to do with Spike. Spike hadn't even been living in Boston at the time.

"Uh, after Mum got sick she..." He allowed the sentence to trail off, straightened his shoulders and forced himself to look Buffy in the eyes again. "Started out as little more'n a beauty mark on her cheek. By the time they found the cancer it was everywhere."

Buffy felt her breath catch in her throat. Sticking awkwardly, unable to make it down to her lungs. She coughed. Just the sound of the word on his lips enough to make her stomach roll. Cancer. It was all too familiar. The look of abject grief on his face was all too familiar. It made her chest tighten and ache, brought up too many things she'd spent the last month and a half trying to repress. Trying to run from.

But this wasn't about her. And Spike was still talking. He was still talking, so she couldn't go there now. Not yet.

"Stage IV malignant melanoma," he said quietly, looking away from her again. "Spread to her liver, lungs and brain. She had to have so many operations, and I..." he sighed deeply. "There was no insurance coverage."

Buffy knew immediately, without him having to say anything else at all, how horrible that must have been. How scary. How desperate. Facing cancer treatments were scary enough even without having to worry about the money. True, Buffy didn't know much about the health care system back in England. Honestly, she still felt like she didn't know much about the one back in California. But she knew enough about surgery in general, about cancer treatments, to know that not having insurance was something very, very bad. Potentially devastating.

"Mum never wanted us to tell daddy about the illness, you see," Drusilla hummed in agreement, meeting Buffy's eyes steadily as she filled in the blanks. "He was here and we were there, and it had been years since we'd spoken with him. He didn't know. Didn't know she was sick until William rang. Simply rang and asked if he might-"

"I didn't ask," Spike corrected her stiffly, bringing Buffy's attention back to him as he glanced up again. "I _begged_. I begged him for help. Used practically his entire life's savings to cover Mum's medical bills. Did it happily, mind you. Wanted to do anythin' he could to help." He reached a hand up and feathered it through his platinum curls, loosening some of them from the gel. "I think he felt responsible in some way, you know?"

No. That part Buffy didn't know. When she and Dawn had called their father to tell him that Joyce was sick, he hadn't done anything to help. Not really. Hadn't offered to come home and take on some of the responsibilities. Hadn't offered to help with the medical bills, or the mortgage on the house, or the funeral arrangements. True, Joyce had had plenty of health insurance to cover the operations she'd needed, but Buffy and Dawn had needed their father. They'd needed an adult. And they hadn't had one.

They hadn't had anyone.

"But that was money he should have been usin' to keep Pratt a float," Spike continued. He'd dropped his hand down from his head and begun pacing again, but more slowly this time. Not frantic and panicky, but absently. Like it was helping him think. Or helping him get the words out. "Then Mum died anyway and he didn't have anythin' left. So I asked Cecily to marry me."

 _Wait_.

"Wait." Buffy frowned, feeling like she'd suddenly missed something. Blinking quickly, trying to force away the sudden burning in her eyes that all the cancer and the daddy talk had caused, she said, "I don't…think I'm understanding where the two fit together."

Spike's eyes met hers again, and he looked for all the world like he'd rather be doing anything, literally _anything_ , other than standing there in front of her preparing to say what he was about to say. He opened his mouth to speak, reconsidered his word choice. Finally, he settled on, "Cecily comes from…family money." Buffy watched him swallow and duck his gaze. "Quite a bit of family money."

And just like that, it all started to make sense. It all started to make a horrible, gut wrenching kind of sense. Started to paint for her a picture she didn't think she was ready to look at. But she'd been the one to ask. She'd asked, and he was telling her.

And a small sounding "Oh" was all Buffy could manage.

"And money was what I needed," Spike pressed on, as though she hadn't spoken. He couldn't even bring himself to look at her now. He'd stopped pacing again, was standing stone still in the middle of the sitting room with his eyes down, his voice strained and low and full of shame. A deep seated, hollow kind of self-loathing that left Buffy feeling frozen all over. "It was…wrong. And it was selfish, but at the time it seemed like the only thing to do. So I asked her to marry me. And she was young, and just as foolish as I was. So she said yes." He paused, barked a short, harsh laugh and shook his head slowly. "Wasn't 'til later that she admitted it was partially just to piss off her old man."

"Yes," Drusilla interjected, and it sounded like an afterthought. But Buffy figured she was actually just trying to give Spike a little time to collect himself again. "Warren Underwood never did think much of my baby brother."

Spike sighed, the sound shuddering and shaky in the silence that had filled the room. Then, he was speaking again. His voice less strained, a little more controlled than a moment ago.

"After we married, I told Cecily about Pratt. That it was going under, and she agreed that we couldn't let it. So we bought my father out as soon as we could and moved here to oversee the transition." He stopped to exhale, long and slow. "We kept the whole thing very quiet. Never told anyone. Didn't want people to think…" Spike bit down on his lip to stop whatever train of thought he'd just been on. "We just never told anyone. When I started there I started as a junior editor, worked my way up same as anyone else might've. No one thought much of it when I kept getting promoted. I was…" his eyes flickered just once toward Buffy before shifting down again, " _more_ than overly dedicated to my work. And I was bloody good at my job."

"But all that's beside the point now," Drusilla chimed, widening her eyes as though to egg her brother on. Trying to get him to get to the real point of all this, which Buffy was guessing by the way the two of them were eyeing each other now, they hadn't quite reached.

The muscle in Spike's jaw ticked as he turned to face Buffy again. His body was facing her, but his eyes were still down. "What I'm trying to say is that—"

She cut him off quietly, the words ringing strangely in her ears as she spoke them. "Is that you own Pratt Publishing."

That had his eyes shooting back to hers. They met and held, staring each other down, trying to read each other's facial expressions. His was tight, lips forming a hard line. Eyes pained. And Buffy didn't know what he was seeing reflected in hers. She was past the point of trying to check her emotions, so it could truthfully be any number of things.

Finally he sighed, nodded his head once and said, "Technically, yes, I do. In name, anyway."

 _In name anyway._

Buffy's chest did that tightening thing again and she blinked. "What do you mean?"

But she was starting to feel like she knew exactly what he meant.

"I mean," Spike said slowly, crossing the space between them until he was standing only a foot or so away from her, looking down at her through his lashes, "that it's Cecily's family money that we used to buy out Pratt. It was her money, the money she brought into our marriage, under her name that we funneled into saving the company, Buffy." He lowered his voice and widened his eyes meaningfully. "Not mine. _Hers_." Then he sighed, turning his eyes up to the ceiling as his jaw clenched tight. "The prenup I signed made bloody sure of that."

Buffy's hand tightened instinctively around the handle of the teacup in her hand, stilling the shaking that rattled the china cup against its saucer as she swallowed hard. Whispered, "You signed a prenup."

"Which brings us back to him not knowing what's good for him," Drusilla said dismissively, a flick of her wrist in her brother's general direction. Like they've had this argument a million times and had yet to come to a resolution that satisfied her. "And how _we_ all ended up in this mess with his horror of a wife at the reins."

Spike's jaw ticked again and he glared at her. "Drusilla, please."

"What did the prenup say?" Buffy heard herself ask, staring down at the tea in her hand. It had gone cold a while ago. She hadn't even touched it. Just kept it balanced on her lap, shaking slightly as she started to fidget. Bone china rattling against bone china. Her leg was suddenly bouncing up and down uncontrollably.

"Standard issue, from what I understand," Spike told her softly, reaching down with shockingly steady hands, lifting the teacup and the saucer out of her grasp and setting them down on the coffee table in front of her. She blinked and her eyes lifted to meet his. "The usual. His and hers assets, keeping them separate, any money acquired through the duration of the marriage to be split equally. But," he breathed, crossing his arms over his chest, "it was very clearly stipulated that anything purchased with _her_ money, her trust fund, the money that had been in her name prior to the marriage, would remain hers."

And there it was. The proverbial kicker. The point of this entire conversation.

"So, if you were to divorce her…" Buffy said softly, letting the thought trail off, the words settle heavily in the air between them.

"Or violate in any way the terms of his prenuptial agreement," Drusilla added gently.

"Pratt Publishing becomes hers," Spike finished for them both, his face drawn, eyes unreadable. "Solely."

Buffy wasn't surprised by the words. Wasn't shocked to hear it. Had been anticipating it since he first mentioned Cecily's money. But it didn't make it feel any better. Didn't make it any easier to hear.

So again, all she could manage was a lame sounding, "Oh."

"Dad would lose everything," Spike said softly, and his voice got that weird, hollow sound to it again. " _I'd_ lose everything. And it would all be for nothing. Saving the company in the first place, how hard we've had to work to turn things around. The last twelve years, my entire career. It would all mean nothing." _Nothing_. Every time he said it Buffy felt a little colder than before. She forced herself to hold eye contact with him though, even as her stomach twisted, the anxious knots she'd thought had gone away earlier returning with a vengeance.

"That's why you can't divorce her," Buffy said numbly. "She owns your family's business."

Spike crouched down in front of her, put his hand beneath her chin to keep her gaze riveted to his as he said, "And _that's_ why Lilah and I were meeting that night at Chophouse." He pulled his hand away from her chin, searched her eyes meaningfully. "I'd asked her to go through the entire bloody thing, top to bottom. See if she couldn't ferret out some sort of loop hole. Some way for me to get out without losing it all in the process."

But there wasn't one. Buffy already knew that. She could tell by the way he was saying the words now. Would have known anyway from what he'd already told her, that night at his condo. That he wasn't getting a divorce.

Lilah hadn't found anything.

But what she wasn't understanding was why he'd wait so long to look for a loop hole in the first place. Why he'd go twelve long years just…living with all this.

"You hadn't tried looking before?" Buffy asked him, giving voice to the new surge of thoughts bumping around in her head.

Drusilla laughed softly, but the sound wasn't a mocking one. It was sad. "My brother didn't even think to have anyone read through it before signing it in the first place."

"Because it hadn't _mattered_ , Dru," he said harshly, standing upright again, whirling to face his sister. And Buffy could see it again. That they've had this conversation probably a million times before now. "Even if I'd known at the time, even if I'd known _everythin'_ I know now, I would've done it anyway and you know it. For Henry." Spike paused, sucking in a deep breath, eyes softening around the edges even as Buffy watched. And then he swallowed hard, cleared his throat. "It's what Mum would've wanted."

And Drusilla sat up quickly, reached her hand across the top of the coffee table and took his hand in hers. Squeezing once as she said purposefully, "I know."

She watched from her chair as the siblings shared a meaningful look, Drusilla's eyes open and earnest. Spike's misty, his lashes wet as he batted them, blinking rapidly.

And Buffy swore in that moment she could hear the sound of her heart breaking open in her chest.

He'd married Cecily because he'd needed the money. He'd needed the money to help save his dad's business, because he thought it was his fault that his dad was bankrupt. His fault that his dad had used all of his money to pay for his mom's medical bills. He'd signed a binding prenuptial agreement. He'd resigned himself to this. To a loveless marriage, to a potential lifetime of celibacy.

And then he'd looked for a loop hole.

He'd only started looking for a loop hole _after_ he'd met her.

"Buffy?"

She jumped in her chair, dragging her eyes up to Spike's. She blinked at him, only halfway registering that he'd just called her name. "Sorry," she murmured, shaking her head to clear it. Her hands feeling heavy where they rested in her lap. "I'm sorry, I just…this is kind of a lot." She stopped, thought about that for a second. Added, " _A lot_ , a lot."

"Well now you've done it, William," Drusilla chided, letting go of her brother's hand, pressing the tips of her index and middle fingers against her temple. "Gone and overwhelmed the poor dear."

Spike fixed her with wide eyes, raised brows, the tender moment evidently over as he told her, "Funny, seeing as how tellin' her all this wasn't even my bloody idea."

"No," Buffy said quickly, interrupting them both and trying to nip another round of sibling squabbling in the bud. "I'm…okay, yeah, I'm feeling a little whelmed here. But not _over_ whelmed." Her words made both Spike and Drusilla smile, which she was thankful for, even if they were a lie. She was feeling very overwhelmed. And young. Really, _really_ young. Too young to be dealing with this.

Then again, she'd probably been too young to deal with all of her own messy life stuff and she'd somehow found a way to handle that.

"So when you were talking about obligation last night, you meant…to your dad. Your family." She glanced away from Spike, dropped her voice. "You can't divorce your wife because you're obligated to your family."

Every time she said it out loud it got just a little more real.

"I got them all into this mess," Spike said in response. Simple, voice flat. Matter of fact. "I owe it to them to see it through."

Something in the resignation on his face didn't sit well with her.

"Even if it means you're miserable?" Buffy pressed him.

Without missing a beat, he answered her. "Especially then." He took in the look on her face, eyed her resolutely. Sensing her confusion, he said, "I did this to myself, Buffy."

And then a new thought crossed Buffy's mind. One that had threatened to cross it once or twice since she'd been sitting there listening to him. Listening to him explain all of this to her. Watching him hate himself, watching him struggle to admit his short comings to her.

And hearing in her head now something Drusilla had said. Violating the terms of his prenuptial agreement.

 _In any way_.

"Infidelity," Buffy whispered, every muscle in her body suddenly tense, shaking her head. She glanced first toward Drusilla and then back up to Spike, her stomach clenching. "That's a violation, isn't it?"

Spike opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it. Stopped. He closed his eyes like he was thinking very hard about something, then opened them. His eyes were dark, impossible to read, which felt like it told her everything she needed to know.

Buffy sucked in a deep breath. "That night, with me," she breathed, keeping her eyes on his, "you violated the terms of your prenup." She laughed, the sound high and breathy. Not like anything was actually funny. "That's what you thought I was trying to blackmail you over."

"Clever girl," Drusilla said softly.

And that was why. That was why the older woman had invited her here. Why she'd pushed Spike into telling her the truth of his situation. So that she'd know what was at stake. So that she'd know what her being involved with him, in that way, was risking. What _he_ was risking each time she allowed him to pursue her.

 _Everything._

And she was going to be sick.

Buffy reached up and gripped the armrests of her chair, digging her nails into the fabric. "Umm, can I…? The bathroom," she said, pushing herself to a wobbly standing position. "I just need a minute."

A brief flash of disappointment clouded Spike's eyes, but then he nodded, straightened his shoulders and said, "Of course, luv."

"It's just upstairs," Drusilla offered, indicating with a point of her too-elegant hand, "round the corner."

Buffy nodded, heading for the foyer where she'd seen the staircase. Unsteady legs carrying her, feeling like they were barely supporting her weight as she stumbled up the stairs. Her pulse pounding in her ears, a coppery metallic taste in the back of her throat.

She spent the next ten minutes on her knees on a fluffy white rug, emptying her stomach into Drusilla's pink powder room toilet.

 ** _-Sunday, July 14th. 6:00pm-_**

Buffy was standing out on Drusilla's second story deck.

It was nice. The high railings on either side kept it secluded, and the neighborhood it was a part of kept it quiet. She'd let herself out there after leaving the bathroom. She'd heard Spike and his sister arguing again down on the main level when she'd finally felt well enough to come out. When the weird wobbliness and the shaking in her hands had stopped. She'd stood at the top of the stairs a little longer than she should have, just listening. She hadn't been able to hear what they were saying, exactly. Or not…everything they'd been saying, anyway.

She had heard her name, though.

And she just hadn't been up to it. Hadn't been up to facing either of them, hadn't had a clear enough head to answer the questions she'd known Spike would want her to answer now that she knew. Namely, how she felt about him now. If what he'd told her had changed the way she felt about him.

And truthfully, she wasn't sure if it had. Or rather, she wasn't sure in what _way_ what he'd admitted had changed the way she felt about him. It was what she was trying to figure out now, leaning over the deck's railing and staring out into the balmy early evening air. Her eyes lighting on the rooftops, the rows of other townhouses that spread out into the city. It was what she was trying to figure out when she heard the soft slide of the glass door on its hinges, heard the even softer inhale of breath from behind her.

She didn't turn around as she listened to the tread of his shoes on the wood of the deck, coming to a stop beside her.

"Are you alright?" Spike asked quietly, and she watched from the corner of her eye as he leaned forward and braced his forearms against the wood railing.

"Fine," Buffy responded quickly. Too quickly. She kept her eyes out on the horizon, inhaled deeply, nodded. "Just...processing."

He shifted beside her. "You want me to leave you alone?"

"No." Buffy shook her head, casting him a quick sidelong glance. Surprised by how true it was. That she didn't want him to leave her alone. Not yet, anyway. "I can still...process with you here."

He nodded to show he'd understood but didn't say anything else, which was good. Quiet was good. There had been way more than enough talking for one day, anyway. Not that Buffy didn't understand that they'd eventually have to talk it out, what he'd told her. What she was feeling. But for now, the quiet was good.

The silence stretched between them, mounting softly. Filling the space. Weaving between them, around them, until it was like an invisible string between the two of them. A string between them, pulling their shoulders together until they were gently touching. Not a lot. Just the softest hint of pressure, bracing against one another. Quietly reassuring.

And after a few very long, silent moments, Spike leaned his shoulder more firmly into Buffy's and inclined his head toward her. Dropped his voice to whisper. "Penny for your thoughts."

Buffy pressed her shoulder back into his for a second in response before pulling away completely. Putting some space between them, she turned her body to face his and said, "You should've told me."

He turned in kind, angling himself the same way. Elbow propped on the railing, eyes narrowed as they swept over her face. Then he frowned, understanding. "Knew tellin' you all this would change the way you looked at me."

"This isn't about how I'm looking at you," she insisted, cheeks flushing hot. She reached up and poked him hard in the sternum. " _You_ should have told me there was so much at stake here, Spike."

He sighed. "Buffy-"

"Before you let me come to you," she said, cutting him off, poking him again. "Before you told me that I _would_ come to you. Before you started any of these games—"

Spike caught her hand on her last poke, wrapping his fingers around hers, holding the entirety of her palm against his chest. "This isn't a game to me, luv. I told you that already." He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. "Why do you think I only started looking for a way out _after_ I met you?"

 _A way out._ The way he said it, so callous. Cold. A way out of his marriage. Or out of the marriage that wasn't a marriage at all, but some backwards, twisted up business arrangement. A binding contract. The one he'd made with a woman he didn't love for her money.

"Did you ever love her?" Buffy asked him suddenly, her eyes burning up into his. Her palm still flush against his chest, the pounding of his heart under her hand steady, strong.

It took him a minute to respond, and when he finally did, Buffy wasn't sure if his answer was what she'd wanted to hear.

"I did," he said thoughtfully, slowly, drawing the word out. "Or, I thought I did. Or I _wanted_ to. There's some kind of distinction to be made there...I'm just not so sure it matters anymore. Hasn't mattered for a long bloody time." Spike sighed, considering her for a minute. Letting go of her hand, turning back to face out toward the rooftops. "Didn't want it to be true, you know? Didn't want to be that kind of man. Didn't want to just be…usin' her. She wanted love so I tried to give it to her. It worked for a little while but I just...it was never right." He shifted his eyes back to Buffy's, his voice low. "She knew it was never right."

Buffy nodded thoughtfully, wondering why the words didn't necessarily make her feel better or worse. She inhaled, turning around and leaning back onto the railing. "Why doesn't she just leave you?"

Spike inhaled too, the next words leaving his lips on a sigh. "She could, I s'pose. I'm sure she's thought about it." He smirked a little. "But why would she when makin' me miserable is so much bloody fun for her?"

"Willing to bet your misery isn't the only factor there," Buffy murmured, hating the way her chest still tightened up and ached for him even now, even knowing he wasn't entirely blameless.

And what was worse, now her chest kind of ached for Cecily, too.

"No," Spike agreed, nodding his head. "If she left me, I wouldn't be the one violatin' the bloody prenup. She wouldn't get what she wants."

"Which is?" Buffy asked softly, having that weird feeling again like she already knew the answer.

Spike smirked drolly, swinging his head around to meet her eyes. "To see me lose everything."

Okay.

So maybe it didn't ache _quite_ as much for Cecily, then.

"She wants to watch me lose the very thing I used her for," he said, his eyes trailing across Buffy's face again, like he was mapping it out. Memorizing it. "'S why she goes round doin' what she does. Those other men she's been with, the blackmail, the threats." He paused, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth and biting down on it. "No. It has to be me, Buffy. I have to be the one to do it so she'll feel vindicated."

She thought that over for a minute before deciding what she thought about it. "That's horrible."

Spike just shrugged, tilting his head to the side. "No more horrible than what I did to her."

It was weird to Buffy now, as she watched the different emotions play out over Spike's face. How something that had seemed so black and white wrong just two days ago now felt so grey and undecided. Spike didn't love his wife and it certainly didn't sound like his wife loved him, but they were bound to each other anyway. Stuck in a marriage that neither of them wanted but neither of them could leave. Spike, out of a twisted sense of obligation and responsibility and Cecily, out of an even more twisted need to watch him suffer. Neither of them was right, obviously.

But she couldn't quite wrap her head around either of them being unequivocally _wrong_ , either.

It was all just a lot. Too much. Too much for Buffy's brain to handle.

So she told Spike as much. "This is all just…" she trailed off, cleared her throat. "It's really..."

"I know," he said quickly, cutting her off before she could get the words out. "I know it's a lot to wrap your lobes around."

She laughed at that. A short, half hysterical giggling sound that tore from her throat before she could stop it.

Spike glanced at her, one eyebrow raised high.

"Umm," she said, starting to try to explain, "It's not really a lot so much as it is just…big. One big, huge… _thing_." She closed her eyes. "That you've been carrying around with you for years. All this guilt a-and shame and…you were so..." she trailed off, turned back around to face him and smacked him hard in the arm as she said, "God, Spike, I can't believe you _did_ this."

His eyes clouded over again, softened with the same guilt and shame she'd just mentioned. "I was foolish," he said honestly, looking away from her. _"_ _It_ was foolish. And manipulative, rash and stupid—"

"And incredibly selfless," Buffy finished for him. Her voice was very quiet in the stillness, her heart doing that clenching, breaking thing in her chest again when his eyes found hers. Colored in soft awe, sparking in confusion. Like it was the last thing he'd ever expected her to say to him. The very last thing he'd been expecting. And she nodded, nodded to show him that she really did mean it. Because it was true. And sure, she knew that what he'd said about it was true, too. That it had been foolish and it had been manipulative.

But it had also been what she'd said.

And Buffy watched as the awe flickered and faded away, replaced with something hard as he shifted his eyes away from hers and shook his head. The word spoken softly, barely more than a whisper. "No."

"Everything you did was for your family, Spike," she insisted, as frustrated with him now for his refusal to listen to her as she had been with his refusal to tell her any of this in the first place. "Everything you've done…you were just trying to help. You _did_ help."

Spike scoffed at that, glancing sideways at her. "Got my family's business tangled up in my sham of a marriage so it could be held hostage. All my father's hard work, reduced to a tool my wife can use as leverage over us for the rest of bloody eternity." He shook his head and rolled his eyes up to the sky. "Doesn't seem very helpful to me."

"Man," Buffy said wryly, waiting for his eyes to drop level with hers again before saying, "Your sister wasn't kidding about all that weight of the world stuff, was she?"

"Dru needs to learn to mind her own _bloody_ business," Spike said roughly, turning his gaze back out toward the city.

Buffy sighed, watching his profile.

"She just loves you," she told him gently, completely understanding at least that much about the enigmatic woman downstairs.

He snorted a little at that, nodding his head. "Little too much sometimes."

Buffy stared at him for a minute. Eyes moving in fluid sweeps over the set of his jaw, the impossible angle of his cheekbones as he hollowed them, pursed his lips. Wondering at how suddenly everything about this man, all the things she'd used to find so confusing, the things that had never added up, suddenly made so much sense.

And she knew then how all of this had changed the way she felt about him.

"Did it help at all?" she asked him.

"Telling you, you mean?" He asked, glancing her way. At Buffy's nod his lips quirked, and he looked away from her once more. "Feel better now I'm not keepin' things from you. Feel worse now I know _you_ know what a manipulative sod I really am. Guess it's what I deserve, anyway."

"I don't think you're a manipulative sod," she admitted quietly.

"You should," he snapped immediately, pushing himself off the railing, turning his back on her as he raised his voice. "Bloody hell, Buffy, the whole reason I didn't want to tell you about this in the first place is 'cause I figured it'd only harden your resolve to stay _away_ from me."

"I _should_ stay away from you, Spike," she countered, raising her own voice to match the level of his. "At least…in that way. In _this_ way."

He turned back around to face her then. His eyes softened again, swept over her face. He studied her for a long moment before finally asking, "Is that what you want?"

She knew what she should say. She knew she should say yes. Should say yes and turn around and leave, and have that be the end of this. But she also knew that saying yes might be a lie. And if it might be a lie, there might be a chance that he'd know it was a lie. And they'd be right back where they started.

So instead of maybe lying, Buffy narrowed her eyes and told him, "This is _so_ not about what I want."

"That's not an answer," Spike pressed blithely, his eyes lighting up a little at the fact that she hadn't denied him outright.

Buffy stepped further away from him, the distance between them only spanning maybe three feet and feeling for all it seemed to represent like it might as well have been three miles. "I can't _give_ you an answer."

Spike paused where he stood, didn't attempt to approach her or close the distance she'd put between them. Just eyed her thoughtfully, the way you might size up a frightened or wounded wild animal. Like he'd spooked her and was trying to figure out how to talk her down.

She watched him take a deep breath in through his nose and exhale again through his mouth. "You're gettin' scared again. And that's fine," he told her, nodding his head thoughtfully. "That's _fair_. This is a lot for anyone to—"

Infuriated, Buffy let out a strangled, exasperated noise. "This is so much bigger than me being afraid of becoming the other woman now, don't you get that?" she demanded, searching his eyes with hers, feeling them blazing to life in their sockets as heat flushed her cheeks. "This is your father's company. Your career. Your _family_. And you'd risk all of that, let me _help you_ risk all of that?" She quieted again, still looking directly at him as she shook her head, felt her eyes beginning to burn. "God, how do you know Cecily doesn't already know what's happened?"

But that seemed to have been something he'd already considered.

"Believe me, luv," he said ominously, his expression darkening as he considered that. "If she knew I'd know it."

"All the more reason to nip this in the bud now, before the bud nips you."

Spike looked ready to argue with her some more. She could practically see the words forming on his tongue, watching him struggle to keep a hold on his temper. Eyes flashing, cheeks hollowed out as he pursed his lips.

"Did I mention that bit about not wantin' to tell you 'cause I knew you'd be bound to start pushin' me away even harder than before?" He asked her with a sardonic brow raise. Buffy made a face at him, and he sighed, leaning his elbows back onto the railing.

"Would it change anythin' if I told you I haven't given up?" He asked Buffy next, tipping his head forward and letting his shoulders sag. He didn't wait for her to respond before he shifted his eyes toward her and said, "Because I haven't, you know. Lilah's still lookin'. I haven't given up."

Buffy didn't answer. Just stepped carefully toward him, keeping her eyes on his as she approached the railing again. He didn't seem to take her silence as a dismissal of his question, or as a rejection of any kind, really. Which was fine, since she wasn't exactly sure how she'd meant the silence to be taken anyway.

"You asked me last night what I was afraid of," Spike said softly once she'd reached his side, turning around on the railing to angle his body toward hers. He tilted his head to the side, appraising her. "Do you remember?"

Buffy nodded, her own lips curving up. "Feels like kind of a stupid question now."

That seemed to surprise him. "Why's that?"

"Well, I get it," she said thoughtfully. "The whole family obligation thing. It makes sense." She sighed. "That makes sense to me."

And it really did. Buffy understood family obligation better than he could probably even imagine.

Something that she thought maybe Spike could read in her eyes now, because he just nodded and said, "Maybe it does."

It grew silent between them again as they stood face to face this time, just looking at each other. It was a different kind of silence than the heavy one from before. This felt…lighter. Aired out. Like maybe, finally, they were really starting to understand each other. Or as well as they could understand each other, what with Buffy still keeping most of her private stuff...private. She knew it would come to it eventually. That she'd have to tell him, that she'd have to tell him as much about her as he'd just told her about him. That at this point, it was only fair.

She was just hoping they could skip that part. Just for now. Just until she'd fully wrapped her head around what all of this meant.

"I lied when I told you I wasn't afraid of anythin'," Spike said gently, breaking the silence, pulling Buffy out of her thoughts. "I do owe it to my father to stay with Cecily. To do everything I can to keep him his company since it's my sodding fault he almost lost it. So in a larger sense, yeah, this all boils down to my sense of…duty, I s'pose." He cocked his head to the side, lashes fluttering as he admitted, "But there's fear there, too."

"You're afraid of Cecily?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

Spike chuckled. The soft, rumbling warmth of the sound washing over Buffy in a gentle wave, honeyed down her back. "No, pet," he said. "I'm afraid of you."

Her eyes widened at that. "Me?"

He merely nodded, smirking a little.

And Buffy was doing that thing again. That staring and blinking a lot thing. "I'm scary?"

"You," Spike said slowly, reaching a hand up to tuck a stray strand of her hair back behind her ear, "are utterly terrifying. I'm afraid of what you represent. The things you make me realize. Things you make me want." He let the pad of his thumb slide over the edge of her jaw. "I'm afraid of the possibility you've put in front of me."

Buffy was frozen to the spot. Pinned by the impossible blue of his eyes, the softness with which he was looking at her now. She swallowed once, hard. Asked, "Possibility?"

The moment that passed between them then seemed to stretch on forever as he smiled sweetly at her, kept his hand braced against the side of her face.

"That I could be happy," he told her quietly, brushing his thumb over her the curve of her jaw one last time before pulling his hand away. "Didn't think I'd get to be."

He had to stop saying things like that.

Had to stop looking at her like he was looking at her now. Like he knew he shouldn't be looking at her like he was now. Like he knew her, knew what she wanted, better than she knew it herself.

Every muscle in her body tensed for the second time that afternoon, millions of tiny sparks shooting across her skin, spiraling up in her gut. Her face felt hot and cold at the same time. Hot in her cheeks, cold where his hand had been keeping the arc of her jaw warm.

"Spike," Buffy breathed, sounding pitifully achy and desperate even to her own ears. "I don't-"

"Shh," he said, leaning toward her on impulse. Like he was going to kiss her. Just once, just the briefest of moments before he seemed to think better of it and pulled back just before his lips touched hers. He stayed well within her personal space though as he said, "Please don't say anythin'. Not yet. Just..." his eyes trailed up from her mouth, to her eyes, to the line of her hair and down again. "Stand out here with me for a little while?"

She wanted to.

She wanted to stay standing out on his sister's balcony with him and watch the sunset, and pretend like everything he'd just said to her didn't matter. But it did matter. It mattered a lot, and doing what she'd wanted so far hadn't been working out too well for either of them.

"I think I should go," she whispered, stepping a little ways away from him, out of the little private bubble they'd wrapped around themselves.

She thought he was going to stop her for a moment. Ask her to stay. Or reach for her, maybe. Wrap his hand around her wrist and pull her back to him, stop her from leaving the way he usually did. But instead Spike surprised her by simply nodding and saying just as quietly, "Okay."

Masking her surprise as best she could, Buffy nodded and offered him a sweet, small smile before she turned her back on him and crossed the wooden deck, reaching for the handle of the sliding glass door. But she paused thoughtfully once she'd reached it. Staring at the image of herself reflected back at her in the glass, the image of Spike standing at the railing behind her shoulder. He wasn't facing her. He was leaning back over the railing, shoulders sagging, head down. Buffy drummed an absent rhythm on the plastic white handle and tried to decide if she should say what it was she wanted to say.

"Spike," she called his name softly, as she turned back around, waiting for him to turn back toward her before she spoke again. "For what it's worth," she told him tentatively, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth and nibbling lightly at it. "You're terrifying to me, too."

Buffy was gone before he could say anything else, but she didn't miss the full dimple showing smile he flashed her just before she slid the door open and disappeared into the townhouse.


	12. Chapter 12

**_-Sunday, July 14th. 8:25pm-_**

When Buffy got home, her head was still across the city. Still standing up on that Beacon Hill townhome's deck as she struggled to dig her keys out of her purse, shove them into the lock. She was lost in her thoughts, thoughts about Spike and his wife, his sister, his father. His mom. The family business. The prenup. She was lost in thoughts of all of it as she twisted the deadbolt open, shoulders sagging with the weight of it all as she pushed the door open and stepped inside the apartment.

More than expecting to just come in, take a long, hot shower and go to bed, she was shocked to find her senses immediately rocked by the overpowering scent of marinara sauce, melted cheese and garlic.

Frowning, she pulled her keys out of the door and stepped all the way inside, shut and locked the door behind her and peeked around the corner. She spotted Faith instantly. Or rather, she spotted Faith's backside instantly. The dark haired girl was leaning over, curve hugging studded jean pockets facing Buffy, the oven door wide open in front of her. She was examining whatever it was that smelled so delicious, both hands gripping a large pan between two makeshift hot pads.

Sunday dinner.

Buffy had _completely_ forgotten about Sunday dinner. It wasn't quite yet a tradition so much as it was an unspoken sort of agreement. Every Sunday night since Buffy's first disastrous Sunday night out, Faith had cooked them both dinner. Sometimes Buffy helped, sometimes she worked at the counter while she watched the other girl cook. It was usually some sort of pasta variation, something she could make a ton of and that would keep in the fridge for more than a day at a time, as Faith had claimed that making a huge Sunday meal was her only way to guarantee she'd eat dinner the rest of the week.

 _"_ _I get way too busy to cook on weekdays,"_ she'd explained the first night, sprinkling salt into a pot of water.

"Hey, B," she was saying now, standing up straight and flipping her hair back out of her face. "Perfect timing."

Buffy returned her roommates smile with a semi-forced one of her own, pulled her purse off her shoulder and set it down on the counter top. She watched as Faith leveled the giant pan of what she could now see looked like lasagna down on top of the hot pad to the right of the stove.

"What's the deal with you and Italian food?" She asked, propping her elbows up on the counter, dropping her chin down into her hands. She raised a brow. "Lehane, that's Irish right? Aren't you supposed to be…with the Irish food?"

Faith laughed at that, reaching into the little tub of grated parmesan cheese she'd just pulled out of the fridge and sprinkling a little over the top of the still-bubbling lasagna. "Have you ever had Irish food?" she asked Buffy pointedly, raising her own dark brow in turn. It was probably a rhetorical question, but Buffy shook her head anyway. Faith grinned, dusted her hands off and capped the cheese. She turned to place it back in the fridge, saying, "Besides, the whole Irish and proud thing was my old man's shtick so…not really my bag, ya know?"

Buffy sighed, exhaling long and slow out of her nose as she nodded. "I get that."

Daddy issues. That was something she _definitely_ got.

"Anyway," the brunette said dismissively, smiling and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before grabbing a large spatula out of the utensil drawer and digging it down into the pan, "like I said, you have perfect timing. I was just about to…" she trailed off, the saucy smile on her lips falling slightly as her eyes met Buffy's, searched her face. She paused, frowned. "Okay, what's wrong?"

Head still in her hands, eyes a little dazed, she blinked back across the counter at her roommate. "What?"

"You look weird," Faith said, motioning vaguely toward her face with the marinara tinged spatula.

A beat passed between the two of them, eyes glued to one another. Faith's dark and expectant, Buffy's tired and apprehensive.

"It's been a weird day," Buffy finally said, taking her head out of her hands and standing up straight. There was tension in her shoulders now that hadn't been there before, had probably only started on her way back to the apartment. She'd been replaying her conversation with Spike and his sister on a loop in her mind the entire way home. Then, when that had finally become too overwhelming, she'd replayed her conversation out on the deck with Spike on a loop. One made her feel better, the other made her feel worse. Both were still feeling like a lot.

And she still wasn't sure how she felt about either. Or what to do about either.

"You wanna talk about it?" Faith asked.

Buffy bit her lip.

 _Yes_. "No."

Looking unconvinced, the other girl set the spatula down and pressed, "You sure?"

 _Nope._ "Yeah," Buffy half-lied. "It'll all be fine."

But the words rang hollow, sounded forced.

The two girls resumed their staring at each other for a moment, letting the sounds of the city street below them fill the silence up. Faith looked like she was trying to decide whether or not to press the issue. Buffy bit down into her cheek and hoped that she wouldn't. After another minute, the brunette looked away, back toward the pasta dish in front of her. She lifted the spatula back up and dug it down into the pan.

"Is this about Spike?" she asked casually, dark eyes focused down on her task, splitting the lasagna into squares. "Is that where you were today?"

Buffy sighed, reaching up to feather a hand through her hair. There wasn't much point in lying about it, she guessed. No point in trying to hide it now, or denying it. Faith already knew the worst of it, anyway. Buffy could tell Faith that she'd been with Spike that afternoon. That she'd been with him, that she'd met his sister. That she'd found out more about him in the span of about three hours than she had in a month and a half. That things between them weren't over, like she'd told her that morning.

That things between them were _far_ from over.

She could tell Faith all of that without having to worry about being judged. But then there'd be more questions, follow up questions. What had Buffy found out? What had Spike told her? Why had things been so big with the over that morning, and so majorly not over now? And those were questions Buffy couldn't answer. Spike's secrets…the things he'd finally told her today. Trusted her with. His life, his marriage, his career…those weren't her secrets to tell.

So she chose to stay silent.

Pressed her lips together, hoping when Faith glanced back up toward her that she could read in her eyes why she wasn't saying anything. For her part, the dark haired girl seemed to understand immediately. She nodded knowingly and turned back down to her lasagna squares.

"Look, I get it," she said breezily, shrugging a little. "We all have things we don't talk about, right? You don't have to talk to me about this if you don't want to. Not gonna make you or anything." She paused, sighing, stilling her hand and turning wide, brown eyes back toward Buffy. "But I'm actually a decent listener. Might be a little rough around the edges or whatever but…I'm here, okay?"

Buffy tore her gaze away from Faith's, feeling unexpectedly, weirdly vulnerable. The disarming way her friend was looking at her making her feel like all she wanted to do now was collapse onto the barstool in front of her and tell her roommate everything. Unload it all. Work through it out loud instead of keeping it all locked inside her head. Ask for Faith's advice, have someone else, _anyone_ else, be able to tell her what to do next.

Because she didn't know, and she was horrified that because she didn't know she was going to end up making the wrong decision. And there was an eensy little, red dress wearing, pitch fork carrying version of herself that felt like if she told Faith now, if she asked Faith _now_ , she knew what the other girl might say. And if Buffy took what she figured her roommate might say and ran with it, followed her advice instead of relying on her own, then she could blame it on her. Have someone else to point back to if, and more likely when, things blew up in her face.

She wouldn't have to admit to herself what it was she really wanted to do.

Buffy let her eyes fall to the thin barbed wire tattoo that wrapped around Faith's bicep, watched how it shifted slightly under her olive skin when she maneuvered the spatula. She'd off handedly admired it from the very first time she'd met Faith, after first moving to the city. She'd admired it, and she'd also been a little jealous. Not so much that she felt the need to go out and get a barbed wire link permanently inked on herself or anything. But she'd admired the bravery it seemed to symbolize. The freedom. Faith had been on her own since she was sixteen, and it showed. She was confident, and strong. Smart. A little bit wild. And she knew how to take care of herself.

Not that Buffy _didn't_ know how to take of herself. She did. Now, she did. Had been forced to learn quickly once her mom had first gotten sick. In the span of one hour-long doctor's appointment, Buffy had been forced to age by about ten years. Become both daughter and caregiver, both sister and mother. A grown-up. And then, in an instant…one horrible, gut wrenching, whole body numbing _instant_ , she'd become the sole provider for her kid sister when she felt like she was barely more than a kid herself. So she knew how to take care of herself.

But it was different. What Buffy had experienced had been very different from what Faith had. At least, from what the other girl had shared with her about her own experience. Every decision Buffy made, even now being so far away from home, she was still accountable to someone other than herself. Those months after her mother had passed, she'd been working to take care of her little sister. To make sure she'd had what she needed. Everything, from something as trivial as making sure she had the books she needed for school, to something as huge as having food on the table. She'd always had Dawn to think about. Always.

Faith hadn't had anyone.

Which, truthfully, was probably equal parts freeing and lonely. Still, if there were anyone who'd probably really get where Buffy was coming from, it would be Faith.

So she found herself smiling softly, gratefully, and saying, "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

Faith shrugged, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable. "Don't mention it," she said, then quickly turned back to the pasta and added, "You hungry or what?"

"God, no," Buffy said honestly, her hand immediately going to press against her stomach. It still hadn't gone completely back to normal, still threatened to roll and heave every time she thought in too much detail about everything she'd been told that afternoon. Faith raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking to the side, and she backtracked immediately. "I mean, don't get me wrong. The cheesy, layered pasta goodness smells fantastic and everything. It's just," she sighed, smiling apologetically, "I'm just not hungry."

The brunette seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding, looking back down into the pan.

"I'll just put the leftovers in the fridge," she said finally, digging her own slice out and layering it onto one the plates she'd pulled out of the cupboard. She cast a sidelong glance at Buffy. "If you're hungry later."

She wouldn't be, but she smiled again and nodded, telling her friend thank you one last time before excusing herself to her bedroom.

 ** _-Sunday, July 14th. 10:56pm-_**

It had taken Buffy a long time to fall asleep. Longer than she would have liked, considering the swirling, spinnyness going on in her head. Her brain wide awake even though her body had been more than exhausted.

It had taken Buffy a long time to fall asleep.

So when she was woken up barely ten minutes after finally drifting off, she woke up in a panic.

Sitting bolt upright, hands gripping the duvet covers, chest heaving the way it only does when you wake up unexpectedly. Violently. There was a ringing in her ears, everything around looking fuzzy as she blinked bleary eyes into the darkness. There was a noise. A loud noise. The ringing, it was…actual ringing. Coming from…somewhere. To her left? Buffy reached a hand up to rub at her eyes, turning, squinting toward her nightstand. Oh. The noise. It was her phone.

Her phone was ringing.

Grunting, she shifted over, snatched it up off her nightstand and swiped across the screen in one hurried, flurry of movement, not bothering to really focus in on the name or the number before pressing her phone to her ear and answering with a hoarse, "Hello?"

"Were you sleeping?"

Buffy pulled the phone away from her ear, blinked at the name on the screen for an extended second. Put it back against her ear. "Spike?"

"Where are you?" he asked simply, maybe a little amused. It sounded like he was walking somewhere.

"Where…" she trailed off, thinking that probably should have been obvious if he'd known she was sleeping. Or assumed she was sleeping. Whatever. Reaching up, pinching the bridge of her nose between her index and thumb, she said, "I'm at home. Why? What's—"

He cut her off with a quick, casual sounding, "No, I mean are you at 401 or 405?"

Buffy dropped her hand down, eyes bugging wide into the darkness of her bedroom. "You're at my _apartment_?" she asked, her voice a strained half shout, half whisper.

Was he really that big of an idiot? Or maybe he just had a death wish. No, not a death wish, a…divorce wish. A I-hope-my-wife-catches-me-in-a-scandalous-affair wish.

She frowned at that. Her head was all fuzzy.

"Well, not yet," Spike conceded, and Buffy could hear it now. The odd rebound in her head. The sounds of the street, reaching her ears in real time from the direction of her window and then echoed back into her right ear a half second later. "I'm on the proper street, I think, but I'm a bit turned around." He made a low growling sound, the walking sounds stopping. "There're five bloody apartment buildings within a sodding two block radius."

"And _why_ are you on my street?" she asked him, already whipping the blankets off her legs, pressing her bare feet into the carpet. Like somehow sitting up straight was going to make all of this make sense.

"I have somethin' for you," Spike said, then sighed into the phone. "Look, I'm just gonna guess if you don't tell me. I'm leanin' toward 405—"

"401," Buffy corrected him, getting to her feet and moving for her dresser without really even thinking about it, yanking it open to pull out a pair of shorts. "Just….wait on the steps out front." She tucked the phone between her shoulder and her ear, leaning down to pull the shorts on as she told him, "I'll come down."

She felt like she was about fifteen years old again as she left her bedroom less than a minute later, creeping through the apartment in sock-clad feet, opening the front door as slowly as she could so the squeaky hinges wouldn't wake her roommate. Shutting it gently behind her, she made for the stairs, practically tripping down them as she attempted to slide one tennis shoe on, and then the other, coming to the tiled lobby and moving quickly for the front doors.

She spotted him before he spotted her. Standing on the side walk, his back to the building's doors. Hands tucked in his pockets, head tilted up. Eyes on the night sky.

"Spike," she said softly, letting the door fall shut behind her and stepping out onto the covered cement portico.

He turned at the sound of her voice, dropping his head immediately. "That was fas—" He placed one foot on the steps, then paused. He stared at her, his lips quirking rakishly as he dropped his voice and said, "Is that what you usually sleep in?"

Buffy frowned at him, taking a second to glance down at the sleeping shirt she'd pulled out of her dresser tonight before crawling into bed. It was just a t-shirt she'd had since high school, a ratty old thing with the school's name screen printed across the front. It was about three sizes too big, fell to her mid-thigh and hung awkwardly off one shoulder. There was a large stain on the front that Buffy thought might have been coffee or possibly chocolate ice cream or something brown and edible in nature. It was her favorite, and up until this moment, she'd never, ever, not once, considered it to be sexy.

Spike was making her rethink that now.

She wished he'd stop.

"You said you had something for me?" Buffy asked, not moving from her cover of shadow, wrapping her arms around her waist.

Spike nodded, looking a lot like he had more than just one something for her as he began to slowly ascend the stairs. He stopped when he reached the step just below her covered landing. "You left _this_ ," he emphasized, pulling his hand out of his jacket pocket, a thin silver chain with a delicate garnet studded cross hanging from his fingertips, "at Dru's place. Least I'm guessin' this is yours," he continued thoughtfully, glancing toward the crimson gems glinting in the street lights. "Not really her style."

Buffy blinked at the necklace for a minute, eyes widening slightly as her fuzzy, sleepy brain slowly began to recognize it.

"Oh." Her hand flew to her throat, feeling automatically for the necklace now dangling from Spike's fingers. She hadn't even noticed it was missing. God, how had she not even noticed it was missing? Feeling a little sick to her stomach, she reached out and grabbed it from him. Wrapped the chain around her fingers, running her thumb over the cross as she breathed, "Oh my God, thank you."

She could feel Spike's eyes on her face as she stared down at the necklace. Her mother had given it to her on her eighteenth birthday. It was the only piece of jewelry Buffy wore consistently, day in and day out. No matter what clothes she wore, whether her outfit matched the necklace or not, she always wore it.

Always.

So how had she not even noticed it was missing?

 _Because you were busy thinking about something else_ , she thought, staring at it and shaking her head.

"Found it when I was leavin', stuck to the rug in the foyer," Spike said softly, ducking his head slightly to try and catch her eyes when she chanced a quick glance up toward him. His expression was warm, thoughtful. "Thought you might want to know it wasn't lost, in case you were thinkin' it was."

That made her brows go up in realization.

"So you brought it all the way over here?" Buffy asked him, feeling her lips twitch up a little in spite of herself as she untangled the chain and reached up to clasp it around her neck. She let her eyes flick up toward his again and said, "Not that I'm not grateful, cause this is me, being grateful." She dropped her hands again. "But you could have just called and given it back to me tomorrow."

Spike narrowed his eyes a little, and she liked the way they sparkled at her as he tilted his head down. "But then that'd be tomorrow," he said, voice low, verging closer to seductive than she was really comfortable with. "'Sides, figured you'd want it back tonight so you could wear it tomorrow." Then he rocked back on his heels, dropping his gaze away from hers. In an instant, looking embarrassed and boyish and maybe just a little nervous as he added, "You wear it every day, so..."

Buffy stared at him, lashes fluttering quickly. Surprised. Both by the way he was suddenly acting, and by the words he'd just said. "You noticed that?"

He shifted his eyes back to hers and smirked, saying, "Spent a lot of time lookin' at your neck over the past six weeks, pet."

Instantly Buffy's cheeks flushed bright red, flaring with heat. And it was her turn to look away, glancing around the portico furtively, eyes darting from one corner to the other, then down toward the side walk, the street. Like she half expected to see someone standing there, staring at them. Maybe snapping damning photographs that would go into some manila envelope to be shown to the divorce lawyer.

Feeling exposed, even with the shadow of the awning above her, she said quietly, "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Do you not want me to?" Spike asked her, tilting his head to the side. No trace of the purring seduction from a few moments ago, but no hint of the sheepish quiet from just after that, either. It was just a question. Like he might legitimately stop saying things like that if she asked him to.

And that thought inexplicably had that little pitch fork wielding version of herself rearing her head. Shouting a loud, resounding _no_.

"I…didn't say that," Buffy said slowly, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth and nibbling on it. Watching the way his eyes sparkled again when she did. "But I just thought, since you have a wife that's apparently trying _actively_ to catch you in a cheating scandal and all…"

His lips curved into a slow smile, understanding passing over his features. "Nobody's listenin' in, Buffy."

He said it firmly. Knowingly. With enough true conviction that it actually had Buffy believing him.

"So, you're not worried about Cecily…checking your phone logs or going through your bank statements? Or hiring a private investigator to follow you around?" She tightened her arms around her waist, glancing around one last time before stepping forward and down onto the step he was standing on. She sat, looking up at him to say,"Or something else equally as made for TV movie."

Spike chuckled at that. "No, and _no_." He turned, dropped down onto the step beside her. Braced his arms down over his thighs and cast her an amused, sidelong glance. "And not after how things ended the last time she tried."

That had her interested heightened. Propping her own elbow up on her knee, cupping the back of her neck with her hand, she asked, "What happened?"

"Put the bloke in the hospital, that's what happened."

Buffy balked, her eyes going wide. "Oh my God."

In response, he raised both eyebrows at her. His voice low and silky as he said, "I'm teasin' you, pet."

It wasn't a funny joke, but she felt herself relaxing a little. And fighting the urge to laugh out loud.

"So you didn't hit him?"

"Oh, no, I did," Spike replied breezily, putting his palms on the cement behind him and leaning back as he laughed. "Laid the wanker out flat. Broke my bloody writin' hand in the process. Fella ended up feelin' so bad about the whole thing, followin' me round when he knew good and well I wasn't doin' anything wrong. He asked if he could buy me a drink and we'd forget about the whole thing." He grinned roguishly at her. "Six years later, that wanker is still one of my best mates."

Buffy did laugh then. Eye-smiled at him, shook her head and murmured, "God, that _would_ happen to you."

"Aside from that," he continued like she hadn't spoken, looking at her like he was very much enjoying the fact that she seemed to be enjoying his company. "Cecily doesn't even know which part of the city I live in. Not exactly. I technically own more than one place in the city." He shifted slightly on the steps, leaned back onto his elbows and stretched one of his legs out straight. "Usually switch off between 'em every couple'a weeks, keeps things from gettin' boring."

Well. At least he was thorough.

"Tricky," she murmured.

Spike smirked appreciatively at her, saying, "And as far as the phone goes—"

"Don't tell me," Buffy interrupted blithely, raising her brows at him, "you have a burner."

"Very funny," Spike muttered, voice teasing as he narrowed his eyes. Then he turned to face forward, scanning the traffic on the street in front of them. "Let's just say I know how to protect things that might need protecting."

And there it was. That soft edge to his voice that Buffy had heard more than once before, the barest hint of a double meaning. Like he meant a lot more by those words than just their face value. Sure, Buffy knew she might have been reading into something that wasn't there. God knew she'd been doing that with Spike from the get go. She didn't feel like she was doing that this time, though. And the poignant pause, the weighty type of silence that was filling in between them now was only helping further that assumption.

"Your ex-P.I. buddy help you with that?" she asked him lightly, choosing to ignore that extra edge she thought she might have heard and going for the nice and fluffy instead.

Spike snickered. "Maybe. Mostly Cecily and I avoid each other. Or…I avoid her." He shook his head, shifted his eyes back to hers. "Talk when we have to, but usually try and limit that to only when it's most necessary. When it's somethin' to do with Pratt, the finances or what not."

And this felt weird.

True, they'd sort of broken down the whole wife barrier the night before. Earlier that day. It didn't feel like an off limits topic anymore, which was weird in and of itself. But Buffy still wasn't sure how she felt about the whole thing. Not just what Spike had admitted to about his own hand in landing himself in his situation, but about Cecily in general. No matter how they'd ended up where they obviously had ended up before Buffy had inserted herself in the situation, no matter how much a joke their marriage might in fact be…it was still a marriage. And sure, no, at this point Buffy didn't have exactly the same qualms as she'd had initially. Felt less skeevy, dirty mistress and more…well, she had no idea _what_ she felt like now.

And that was probably the problem.

"Does she do any work with the company?" Buffy heard herself asking, not sure if she was asking because she really wanted to know more about his wife or if she was asking because she wanted to hear Spike talk more about Cecily. As weird, as heart breaking as his situation obviously was, there was a part of her that found it all a little fascinating, too. She couldn't help but find it fascinating. In the same way people rubber neck when there's a car accident, or the way Buffy hadn't been able to put down that trashy romance manuscript. Like those awful Lifetime or Hallmark movies she used to watch with Dawn and her mom. Darkly, twistedly fascinating.

So he and his wife owned Pratt. She knew he worked for the company, but did she? Was she just an investor, or was she actively involved somehow?

Did Buffy's job depend on her, too?

For his part, Spike didn't seem to be daunted by her asking about his wife.

Shrugging slightly, he said, "A little, here and there. Changes from year to year, how involved she wants to get. Dru says it's just another way for her to make my life difficult. But between you and me," he swung his head back to look at her, expression soft, eyes bright as they scanned her face, "sometimes I think she might actually care what happens to the company one way or another." A beat. "She quite likes you, by the way."

Buffy frowned. "Cecily?"

"Drusilla," he corrected on a quiet sigh.

"She does?"

"You look surprised."

"Well…" Buffy trailed off, checking her wide-eyed expression, consciously lowering her eyebrows again. She blinked a few times. "Yeah, a little. I just…I sort of got the feeling she invited me over today because she thought I was a bad influence on you or something."

Hadn't that been the whole reason she'd invited her over there to begin with? To make sure Buffy knew exactly what she was getting involved in, everything that she was causing Spike to jeopardize every time she allowed him to get close to her.

But Spike threw her for another loop when he scoffed, looking at her a little like she'd just sprouted an extra head.

"Hardly," he said, dark brows knitting together as he stared up at her. "She forced my hand today for _your_ benefit, luv, not mine. Well not just mine, anyway. Thought it only fair you knew the whole score before gettin' involved in the game."

Buffy was a little surprised at how relieved she actually felt to hear that. Hadn't realized until just that moment, when the words had left Spike's lips, how much she'd actually maybe wanted Spike's sister to like her. She obviously wasn't his wife's biggest fan, and the two of them were obviously so close. And it wasn't like Buffy didn't know how important the opinions of family…of sisters…could be.

She just hadn't wanted to admit to wanting Drusilla to like her. Because if she wanted Drusilla to like her, it was because she wanted Spike's family to like her. And the only reason she'd care whether or not Spike's family liked her would be because…

And no. No. She was saying _no_ to the little pitch fork wielding, selfish, _I want what I want and all consequences be damned_ Buffy that was currently sitting on her shoulder and whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

So she covered, leaned forward to wrap her arms around her knees and asked, "Who says I'm getting involved in anything?"

"Don't look at me," Spike said, sitting up straight again, bringing both of his hands palm up in surrender. "I'm makin' no such assumption. Just what she said, is all." Then he smiled at her. "Point is, my sister _likes_ you."

She ignored the chest swelling warmth those words inspired.

"I like her, too," Buffy told him honestly, biting down on her cheek. "Kinda hard not to like someone who cares that much about her family." She paused, wrinkled her nose up. Wondered if she should ask the next question or not. Wondered if he'd answer even if she did ask. Finally decided it didn't matter either way and asked, "Has she always been so—"

"Off?" he supplied for her, eyebrows raised. Lips curving softly.

She smiled, leaning unconsciously toward him. "I was gonna say _eccentric_."

"Eccentric," Spike nodded, giving her a low, throaty chuckle. "That's a word for it. Uh, she's always been a little bit dotty, I s'pose. Got worse after Mum passed." He paused, the silence between them punctuated by the meaningful look he was giving her now. Then, cutting the sudden tension abruptly he added, "Bloody genius, though. You should read some of her poems, they're brilliant."

Wait. _Poems_?

This all just kept getting more and more fascinating.

"She writes poetry?" Buffy asked.

Spike nodded, looking back out toward the street. "Whole books of 'em, in fact. For the kiddies, clever little rhymes that attempt to teach lessons and what all."

"Wow," Buffy murmured softly, meaning it. "That's…really impressive." She made a face at him when he met her eyes again. "I was never any good at the poetry thing, all the rules and the rhyming and the…pentameters. Even free verse always felt, I don't know, pretentious, maybe? Or I was just bad at it." She kept her eyes on his and shrugged. "I was always better with a narrative."

Spike's eyes went wide as he sat up a little straighter, tilted his head to the side. "You're a writer?"

Her eyes went wide, too.

 _Oops._

She'd definitely been meaning to keep that to herself.

"What?" She glanced away from him, turned her eyes toward her hand. Scraped at the chipping nail polish on her right thumb. "No. No." A beat. She scraped faster at the polish. "I mean, yeah, I…dabbled…in school, but I…" she trailed off, shook her head. "No."

"Hope your writing is more eloquent than your speech, pet," he teased her sweetly, dimples showing when he flashed her another bright, wide grin. Then he leaned a little closer to her, tilted his head to the side and fanned his unfairly long lashes. "What do you write about?"

She looked at him for a moment. Opened her mouth to say…something. Maybe to answer him, or maybe to tell him she wasn't going to answer him. She wanted to answer him. But her writing…that was extremely personal. What she wrote _about_ was extremely personal. Revealed things about herself, parts of herself, that she didn't let anyone else have access to.

And if she talked about it with him. If she made that part of herself accessible to Spike…that felt like she'd be making her decision.

She wasn't ready for that.

"It's late," Buffy said quietly, pressing her palms into the cement step beneath her and pushing herself to her feet. She dusted off her hands and sighed, staring out into the street. "I should probably get some sleep, and you have a twenty minute cab ride ahead of you, so—"

Spike groaned, rolled his head back and sighed, "And she's off."

She drug a hand through her hair, using her fingers to pin it back from her face as she looked down at him. "Don't do that."

"I'll stop when you stop," he said brusquely, not moving from his position on the front steps of her building. Dropping his gaze from hers until it was level with the street again.

Frustrated, Buffy frowned at him.

"I'm not _doing_ anything," she insisted, dropping her hand out of her hair, letting it fall down to her bare leg with a smack.

But she was. She _was_ doing something, and they both knew it. And Spike was more than ready to point it out to her again as she shoved himself up to his feet and turned toward her.

"You're running from me, Buffy," he told her simply. Didn't raise his voice, or look angry. Just said it. Pointed it out, as much for his benefit as for hers. Then, eyes darkening, he added, " _Again_. Which, I might add, is entirely unfair given the fact I've now told you everything there is worth knowin' about me."

"Somehow I doubt that," she deadpanned in response, reaching up to cross her arms over her chest.

"Right, fine. Still," he pointed a finger at her, "you now know more about me than I do about you. Yes or no?"

Buffy pursed her lips in response, tightened her arms. Tilted her chin back. The answer was yes. Unequivocally, yes. But she wasn't about to tell _him_ that. Something he seemed to pick up on, because he gave her a look.

"Just," he stepped a little closer to her, widening his eyes as he lowered his voice, "give me one thing. Just _one_. Can be as small as you like."

She stared at him for a minute, then sighed, exhaling through her nose. Shoulders sagging, ignoring the way his eyes had started that little dancing thing again, she asked, "Stipulations?"

Looking pleased, Spike stepped a little closer to her again. "Honest," he told her crossing his own arms over his chest, mirroring her stance. Then he smirked, leaned his face down toward hers and said, "And personal."

Of _course_. Of course that would be his stipulation. She wasn't sure why she'd even asked? Then again, he wasn't asking for anything other than what she'd been demanding of him for days. He wanted one thing. One. She could give him one thing after all the very many things he'd given her today.

She could do that.

Buffy reached up and feathered her index finger over the cross pendant at the hollow of her throat, her eyes never leaving Spike's as she said softly, "I wear this every day because it was a gift from my mom." A beat. Then, "My sister has one too, but hers has green stones."

Spike looked at her. Let his eyes trail over her face, fanning his lashes down over the necklace at her throat, a soft smile playing across his lips. His eyes raised to her mouth, lingered there for a really long second, then slowly back up to her eyes. All he'd done was look at her, and she suddenly felt naked.

Then he stepped back out of her personal space.

"Goodnight, Buffy," he said, giving her a wry, almost smug looking smile as he turned his back on her and descended the steps.

Wait, what?

He'd been begging her to open up to him for days. Weeks. He'd just practically begged her for something personal, and she'd given it to him. She'd actually given him more than one thing, if he was as smart as she knew he was.

So…goodnight? _Goodnight?_

"That's it?" she asked, frowning at his back. Watching the sound of her voice stopping him just as he reached the sidewalk again. "Goodnight?"

Spike chuckled, his shoulders moving a little in time with the sound as he turned back around to face her. Then he sighed, shoving his hands back down into his pockets. "I…want to kiss you right now," he told her simply, honestly. He shrugged. "I want to kiss you right now, and I would, if I didn't think it'd send you runnin' for the bloody hills. And I don't rightly trust myself not to kiss you, hills be damned, if I stay. So… yeah." He nodded, eyes gleaming as he started to turn back toward the sidewalk. "Goodnight, Buffy."

 ** _-Monday, July 15th. 9:30am-_**

Buffy thought she'd feel different.

That she'd feel differently walking into work today after the weekend she'd had with Spike. That everything she'd learned over the weekend should have _made_ her feel differently. Feel differently about getting off the elevator, about walking to her little cubicle. About sharing casual good morning's with Xander and Cordelia, both of which asked her a little too enthusiastically how her weekend had been, and both of which had silly, satisfied little smiles on their faces while enthusiastically asking her how her weekend had been. She'd made a mental note to press one of them more about said silly, satisfied smiles later because she'd already been running later than she should have been.

She _really_ thought she'd feel differently walking down the maze-like hallway, rounding the corner and approaching Spike's office door.

And she did. She did feel different. Just not the different she'd been expecting to feel.

She felt better.

And she felt a little gooey when she stepped inside his office and he looked up from his desk, watched his eyes soften as they took her in. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her, saying, "Good morning."

"Good morning," she said back, crossing to her section of cleared desk space. She set her bag down on the floor next to her chair, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She pulled her laptop out and set it on the desk, opening it and turning it on. "Do you have those final revisions for me?"

"I…" he began, then cut himself off abruptly. Frowning, he set his pen down. "What?"

Buffy looked up at him. "The…revisions," she said, frowning in return. Perplexed by the expression on his face. "To the pro-forma and the proposal? You told me on Friday that you'd have your final revisions for me first thing this morning."

"That's…the first thing you're goin' to say to me?" he asked, perplexed expression still firmly in place. He raised his eyebrows. "Ask for the _revisions_ I promised you on Friday afternoon?"

Buffy sat down in her chair, brow furrowed as she turned her attention down to her computer screen. "Technically, I said 'good morning' first."

"Are you bloody kidding me?" he asked her, voice low as he leaned forward impulsively across his desk, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Excuse me?" Buffy asked, sitting back in her chair. Completely caught off guard by his attitude shift.

"You think we can just sit here and ignore it?" he demanded heatedly, and Buffy wondered if she should have shut the door behind her on her way into the office. "Bury your head in the sodding sand and pretend the whole bloody weekend never happened?"

She stared at him, blinking rapidly. Wondering at how things had gone from literally zero to sixty in less than a second. Ignoring what had happened between them this weekend was the opposite of what she was doing.

 _That's_ what he thought she was doing?

"What?" she stammered awkwardly, stuttering over her words as she struggled to explain herself. She shook her head, saying, "No, Spike, I just—"

He widened his eyes, raised his eyebrows at her as he cut her off. Clearly frustrated. "You just what, pet? Thought we'd have it out? That you'd finally get me to spill all my dark and dirties to you and you'd just show up here today and act like nothin' fucking _happened_?"

He scoffed, shaking his head as he tore his gaze from hers. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Hey." Buffy shut her laptop abruptly, her lips forming a hard line, the snap of the computer's plastic cutting through the air between them and bringing his eyes snapping back to hers. "You can stop with the righteously indignant act anytime, buster. I'm _not_ pretending the weekend didn't happen." She sat back in her chair and shook her head. Glanced down, sighed. "Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could. And I'm not burying my head in the sand, either. I'm just…trying to work. That's where we are right now. Work." She chanced a look up at him through her lashes. "With a huge, massive meeting happening tomorrow. Publishing board. _Hollow Hill_." A beat. "Ring any bells?"

And Spike just sat there staring back at her. Or maybe gaping. Gaping might have been the better word for it. His mouth just slightly open, like he wanted to say something but couldn't. Didn't know what to say. For once, stunned completely speechless.

Buffy would have been proud of herself if she wasn't so busy wondering if she should have said any of that in the first place.

Then, finally, he cleared his throat and asked, "So you aren't just goin' back to ignorin' it, then?"

Relieved that he looked a little sheepish, not angry, her shoulders relaxed and she shook her head. "No," she said slowly. Cautiously.

He leaned back in his chair and appraised her openly. Slowly. Picking up his pen again, he started tapping it against the mahogany desk. "But you don't think we should be talkin' about it here."

"No," Buffy said again, a little more quickly this time. "I don't think we should talk about…" she paused, lowered her voice and glanced around furtively, " _it_ here."

He smoldered at her then, smirking. Tilted his head and told her, "You're adorable."

Oh, boy.

"Spike."

"Buffy, luv," he chuckled, leaning toward her again. "This is probably the safest place on the bloody planet to talk about _it_. Not like Cecily has the Godforsaken place bugged."

Her eyes widened at that. _That_ particular thought hadn't even occurred to her, but now that he'd mentioned it…

No.

Buffy shook her head. "I'm not worried about Cecily." She paused, rethought that. "Well, no, I am, but not about her…bugging the office or…whatever. This is _work_ ," she emphasized, gesturing toward her lap top, to the papers scattered across his desk. "We agreed that when we're here, at work, you're just my boss—"

"But that was before," Spike cut her off. Again, the way he had last night. Not loudly or angrily, but simply. Matter of fact. He lowered his voice a little, probably for her benefit, fighting the urge to smile around the words as he said them. "You forget already? You _came_ to me, pet. That was the deal. I'd hold back until you came to me, and you did. So now we're dealin' with the after." He tilted his head to the side, speaking slowly. "After everythin' I told you. After those moments, yesterday and last night, with everythin' you know…things are different now." He paused, trying to read the expression on her face. And she watched as the self-assuredness started to slip away, the gleam in his eyes replaced with something milder. "Things _are_ different now, aren't they?"

Yes, things were different now. Things between them personally were different now, but that didn't mean that things at work had changed. He was still her boss. He was still her mentor. Someone that she admired on an intellectual level and wanted to _learn_ from. And this was still her job. A job that she liked, that she wanted to be good at. A job she needed.

She couldn't afford to go all…gooey. Not here.

"I think while we're at work we should just…work," Buffy told him truthfully, but she couldn't quite keep her lips from curving upwards. Couldn't keep the slight twinkle out of her eye when she flicked her gaze up to meet his.

He nodded, picked up the stack of papers that had been sitting in front of him, shuffling them once before handing them across the space toward her. She took them, glanced down at the paper on top. His final revisions. She set them down beside her and opened her computer again, waking up the screen.

They worked in silence for a few minutes before Spike broke it to ask her the question. Quietly, hesitantly. His eyes focused down on his work.

"What about when we're not at work?"

Buffy smiled as she stared into her computer screen, ducking her head so he wouldn't see it. She sighed, schooled her face into an impassive mask before she looked up at him. They eyed each other from over the top of her laptop for a moment.

Then, she said, "We'll see."

 ** _-Monday, July 15th. 5:26pm-_**

Buffy sat back in her chair. Legs crossed, forearms flopped lazily over the arm rests. Re-reading the sentence she'd just read for the third time before turning her eyes toward Spike.

They'd been working mostly in silence since coming back from their respective lunch breaks. Spike had notes he'd needed to get through in preparation for the next day's meeting, so he'd left her mostly to her own devices. She'd spent the earlier part of the day going through the list of names he'd given to her Friday, looking up the various executives and members of the sales department that were a part of the pub board. There were ten names total, including the one Buffy was the most insanely nervous about meeting. Henry Pratt. She was nervous about meeting him. She was nervous about the meeting in general. She was nervous about finding some way to make a complete fool of herself, or of Spike, in front of his colleagues. She was nervous about how she'd find a way to be normal around Henry Pratt when she knew everything that she knew now.

But Spike had pretty much guaranteed her when she'd expressed that nervousness to him, more than once, that no one would probably look twice at her during the meeting- his father included.

Which had made her feel better.

A little bit better.

Aside from Henry Pratt, the rest were all fairly blah, from what she'd been able to find out via search engine. Once she felt satisfied that she could recognize all ten people, match all ten names with all ten faces and departments, Buffy had chosen to go back through the two documents one final time, in fine tooth comb mode. Looking for any and every possible mistake she might have made that could potentially embarrass him. It was funny, when she'd typed it up the first time, when she'd added in his two different rounds of revisions, she hadn't really read any of the words. Just scanned them vaguely, copying them down.

This time, though, she'd read them.

And she was leaning back in her chair staring at him now, eyes scanning the lines of his face. The set of his jaw as he poured over the papers in front of him. The crease that formed between his brows as he concentrated, the quick movements of his eyes as they ran back and forth from one sentence to the next. She stared at him, glanced back at her computer screen again, then asked blithely, "Where do you come up with this stuff?"

Spike smirked wryly but didn't look up at her, kept his eyes down on his notes. "Gonna have to be a touch more specific."

"This, the stuff you write here." She gestured back to her computer screen demonstratively, even though she knew he wasn't looking at her. "About the book. I mean the pro-forma and the sales projections and the possible generated income are just stats, so…whatever, I get that. But this…I mean, _this_ …" She trailed off, not finding the words she was looking for. Giving up, she leaned forward and increased the size of the font in her word doc and then flipped the computer around so he could see the screen.

He flicked his gaze up briefly, just long enough to scan the highlighted words before turning them down again.

"It's just a synopsis, Buffy."

She frowned at him.

"Well, yeah, I know," she said, disappointed by his lack of shared awe and excitement, flipping her laptop back around to face her. Re-reading the paragraph one more time. "But it's so…sexy. And intriguing." She looked up at him again. "I read the manuscript, Spike. _Hollow Hill_ totally is not this sexy and intriguing."

He just smirked again, doing that twinkly eye thing as he asked, "Draws you in, does it?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. The words he'd written did a lot more than draw her in. They were sensual and riveting and they _completely_ drew her in, made her want to re-read the manuscript she'd already read through twice just to see if she could find where all the sexiness was that she'd apparently missed all together.

So she answered, "Got a real moth-to-the-flame quality going."

That made him laugh.

"Then it's workin'," he told her once he'd stopped chuckling, re-reading the words in front of him one last time before setting the papers down and looking up at her. "Hopefully it works as well on them as it did on you. Should'a read the one Eddie first sent me. Christ," he rolled his eyes good naturedly at the memory, "A junior editor probably wouldn't have given the bloody manuscript the time of day based on that alone."

She paused, frowning at him.

There was a lot Buffy was still learning about the publishing industry as a whole, but this part confused her. She'd been under the impression that the most authors wrote their own proposals, but then Spike had put himself in charge of writing this one, so she'd figured maybe she just hadn't understood. Or that maybe every publishing house did things differently. But now he was saying he'd gotten an initial author written proposal, and the opted to change it. She wondered now if that was normal, or if it was just one of Spike's particular editorial quirks.

And if so, was that the reason he'd been more successful than his contemporaries at getting manuscripts past committee?

"So you re-wrote this specifically for tomorrow?"

"And you helped," he told her purposefully.

"I _transcribed_ ," she told him equally as purposefully. Then paused, glancing at the computer screen again. "Do you re-write all the book proposals for manuscripts you pitch?"

"Only if the author needs the little extra help," he explained, gesturing toward the bloody looking manuscript dotted through with red marks sitting to his right. "Eddie can tell a hell of a story, but he's not much for bein' concise without somehow suckin' the life out of his narrative."

Buffy thought about that for a minute, eyes scanning through the paragraph one more time before she looked up and asked, "Can you teach me how to do this?"

"I can teach you a lot of things," Spike responded, his voice suddenly teasing. Eyes sparkling at her as he curled his tongue up to press against the back of his teeth.

The expression never failed to send a little tingle down her spine. Not that she wanted him to know that.

So she covered, made a face at him.

"Ugh, okay, can you just answer the question?" she asked, folding her arms. Trying her best for justly irate but ending up with something closer to awkwardly flattered. She just couldn't find it in her to be truly indignant when he was looking at her like that. Not now that things were different. She sighed, pursing her lips and shaking her head at him. "You don't have to make everything sound all…"

"Sexy and intriguing?" he teased her lightly, picking up his notes and shuffling through them again. Keeping his glittering eyes on her.

 _Yes._

"Sexual harassment-y," she countered smoothly.

Spike opened his mouth to respond to that immediately, but looked like he thought better of it before the words could slip out. He nodded slowly instead, wicked smirk softening around the edges slightly as he said, "Promise, luv. By the time you're done here, I'll have taught you everythin' I know. Now," he reached across the desk toward her, closing her laptop with a quiet plastic click, "you should get out of here."

Buffy frowned, not understanding. "But, with the…the meeting's at 9:00." She reached for her laptop with the intention of opening it again. "I need to do—"

Spike covered her hand with his immediately, stilling her movements with the slightest pressure and drawing her eyes back to his. "You've already done more to prepare for this meeting than you needed to, pet," he said softly. "I get that you're nervous, but you've done all you can to prepare and this is gonna be a breeze." He pulled his hand back, leaving her feeling cold. "Read one of your romance novels. Have some wine. Take a bubble bath." A beat. His eyes darkened. "And you should ring me when you're doin' that last bit."

Buffy sighed, gabbed for her laptop with both hands and lifted it into her lap. Resigned. Her boss had his stubborn face on, so she knew just by looking at him now that this was an argument she wasn't going to win. He wanted her to go home and relax, so she was going to have to go home and…relax.

So what if relaxing meant poring over her notes ten more times. She could drink win and look over her notes.

"I don't _read_ romance novels," she corrected him, choosing to ignore the rest of his suggestions as she glanced away from him. Frustrated that he'd managed to make her blush yet _again_ today. "That was just the one time." She leaned down to stuff her computer back into her bag, preparing to head out. Honestly, a glass of wine and massive piece of Faith's lasagna didn't sound half bad. "And that was just because you assigned it to me."

"Mmm, right," he chuckled, watching her through his lashes as she finished adjusting her bag, pushed herself up onto her feet. "Just the wine and bubble bath, then."

"Still at work," she sing-songed, hoisting her bag up onto her shoulder.

"It's after 5:00," he sing-songed back.

Buffy fixed him with a look, shook her head and wordlessly headed for the door. He really was impossible. She probably should have figured things would go this way…give him an inch and he'd take a mile. And then some.

And what was worse? The more time she spent around him the more worried she was becoming that she'd let him have the whole damn Interstate if she wasn't careful.

 ** _-Tuesday, July 16th. 8:32am-_**

Buffy was feeling decidedly jittery when she arrived at work.

Not as anxious jittery as she would have expected. More…overly caffeinated jittery. Not quite nervous. Or at least not the kind of nervous she'd been expecting to be.

She'd done what Spike had asked her to do the night before. No, not…everything he'd asked her to do. Or…not anything he'd asked her to do, technically. There'd been a cup of hot tea instead of wine, a stack of notes and her own marked up manuscript instead of a romance novel, and a long, hot shower instead of a bubble bath.

But she'd still succeeded in relaxing, waking up that morning feeling refreshed, and honestly a little excited, arriving at the office a full thirty minutes before the meeting was supposed to start. It was the earliest she'd ever been at work since starting there, and she was surprised to see that there were several people there already when she stepped off the elevator. No one she recognized, Xander and Cordelia rarely showed up much before 9:00. But the quiet was nice. The soft shuffle of papers, the humming of the florescent lights. The funny little sounds the printer made when it was booting itself up.

It was nice.

She rounded the quiet corner and down the office-lined hallway, stopping in front of his door. It was open just a crack, and she didn't bother knocking, instead using her hip to shove open the door, both of her hands occupied with coffee.

"So I wasn't sure exactly how you take your coffee, so I just got it black," she said, crossing his intricate Persian rug and setting down the Styrofoam cup she'd grabbed for him at her favorite place on the way in. "But I stole some creamer pods on my way out and have them in purse, so if you—" she set her own coffee down, looking up toward Spike and pausing instantly. He had his cell phone in his hand, staring down at it with a bizarre expression on his face that she couldn't read. Hadn't ever seen before. "What is it?"

He blinked a few times, slowly met her gaze. Expression still unreadable. "What?"

"Something's up," she said, frowning. One hand on her bag's shoulder strap and the other braced against his desk. "Your face is all weird."

Spike looked for a minute like he didn't know what to say. Looked at her like he was almost surprised to see her there. Then he shook his head, glanced away, seeming to snap out of it as he leaned back in his chair. He cleared his throat. "Sit down, Buffy."

Uh oh.

She didn't say anything. Just did what he'd asked, sliding her bag off her shoulder and dropping down into her chair. His eyes still weren't on her. His face drawn, brow creased. She just stared at him, waiting for him to explain to her what exactly was going on.

Finally, he sighed. Shifted his eyes up to meet hers.

And there was no trace of the warmth she'd expected to see there. The warmth she'd gotten _used_ to seeing there.

Her stomach dropped, and it had nothing to do with her jitters, nervous, caffeinated or otherwise.

"I've thought a little on it and I think I've changed my mind," he said, folding his hands one on top of the other. "I don't think you should sit in on this meeting today after all."

Alright, so…not exactly what she'd been expecting to hear. Not exactly something that warranted the expression on his face now, either. Like she'd kicked his puppy or something. But she'd spent the night preparing, trying to calm her nerves. Actually getting to a point this morning where she'd been looking forward to the meeting, to watching Spike be so in his element.

She'd actually been a little day dreamy about it in the shower that morning. Watching him pitch the manuscript, maybe read a little of the proposal out loud. The way she'd envisioned his eyes flashing, jaw clenching as she watched him go to bat for a project he obviously believed in. All that passion she fully knew he was capable of, all the love he so obviously had for his company, coming out in his work.

Of course, in her day dream he'd been wearing his mauve colored button down and not the royal purple one he had on now, but…close enough.

Yesterday, hearing him let her off the hook for the meeting might have been a relief.

Today, it was a disappointment.

"Why?" she asked him now, slipping her bag from her shoulder and down into her lap. Trying not to let her frustration show.

"You were right before," he began on another sigh, looking down at his desk, absently straightening the various piles of paper clipped papers stacked in front of him. "I didn't have you sit in on the editorial meeting, doesn't make sense to have you jump straight into the pub board. Besides that, you're nervous," he looked back up, his eyes level with hers, "which means you're not ready."

Now that part…didn't seem right. Not that it felt like an out and out lie, but it just felt…off. Like an excuse. Like he was scrambling to think of an excuse not to bring her into the meeting with him.

She felt her eyes narrow, brow furrowing as she stared across the desk at him. Nothing about what he'd just said was making sense to her. In fact, he'd told her pretty much the exact _opposite_ of all that just before she'd left his office the night before.

"That's not what you said yesterday," Buffy reminded him.

His eyes flashed, voice hard as he warned, "Don't argue with me."

She reeled back at the sudden callousness in his voice, pressing her back into her chair.

 _That escalated quickly_.

"I'm not...arguing," Buffy insisted, squinting at him, as if narrowing her eyes further would help her understand what happened to the man she'd spent the day with yesterday. "I'm confused. _Yesterday_ you were all about the convincing of me that this would be easy. That I had no reason to be nervous. You told me how helpful I've been, how much I've learned. And today…" she left the words hanging there between them, the silence filling in, weighty and palpable and full of whatever it was that was being unspoken. Whatever his _real_ reason was.

Because it wasn't this. Wasn't what he was saying. It was too much of a one-eighty degree flip, even for him.

Then, understanding, her eyes widened. She leaned forward, lowering her voice a little to ask, "Is this about me meeting your dad?"

Apparently, that wasn't the right thing to say.

" _Jesus_ , Buffy, no," he growled. Jaw ticking as he looked up toward the ceiling. "This isn't about my bloody father."

"Then why the sudden change of heart?" she demanded, her own voice pitching higher, cheeks flushing hot. Both because she still didn't believe him and because he was talking to her like he was. It had been weeks since he'd looked at her and talked to her this way, and she was realizing now how little she'd missed it.

Spike sighed, turning his gaze back down from the ceiling and back to her. He shook his head, saying, "I changed my mind, is all." He reached forward, drumming his fingers absently on top of his desk. Nervously, distractedly. "Don't want you sittin' in there ready to jump out of your bloody skin anytime anyone so much as looks at you."

"No," she countered immediately, shaking her own head in return. Not sure how she knew he wasn't telling her the truth, but knowing just the same. In the aching in her stomach, the tight pull across her chest. "That's _not_ why. Just tell me what's really going on—"

Spike cut her off with an impossibly loud, infuriated snarl.

"I'm your boss, and I'm sayin' _no_ ," he shouted, bringing his hand down to slam hard against the wood desk top. The noise was harsh, so loud in the quiet office space, making her jump. Her eyes snap open wide. She stared at him, stunned. Speechless.

For his part, Spike looked like he regretted it immediately. Pulled his hand off the desk, shaking it out as if it were stinging. He paused, staring her down as he inhaled shakily through his nose. Slowly out again through his mouth. Then, his voice quiet and low, "Just…no."

"Wow," she said quietly, breaking the renewed silence surrounding them. A burst of short, hot air escaped her nose as she looked at him. "Really taking that whole just being the boss thing to a new level." She wasn't sure what had just happened. "Only when it suits you, though, right?"

She watched as his expression shifted instantly. The hard line of his lips going slack, eyes softening as they trailed over her face. Looking inexplicably pained, her name left his lips in a rush. "Buffy."

Urgent. Desperate. Like he'd only just now realized how cold, how harsh he'd been to her.

Softening a little herself, she shook her head instantly. "No, you know what, it's fine. I'm just…gonna work with Cordelia today." She pushed herself up to her feet and tore her eyes away from his, hauling her bag up onto her shoulder. Refusing to look at him as she turned and headed for the office door. "Good luck, and-"

"It's Cecily."

Nothing else he could have said would have made her stop so abruptly, a cool chill flooding her chest. She turned to glance over her shoulder at him, taking in his anxious expression. She swallowed hard. Was starting to feel afraid of the answer even before she managed to ask, " _What's_ Cecily?"

Spike inhaled deeply, pressing his palms into the desk and getting himself to his feet. "You asked me Sunday night if she does any work with the company," he reminded her, bracing his knuckles on the desktop.

"I did," she agreed slowly, her mouth running dry. Not liking where this seemed to be going. She began racking her brain, trying to remember what he'd told her in response. She'd asked if Cecily worked for Pratt, and he'd told her…what? God, why couldn't she remember what he'd told her?

"Should've just bloody told you then," Spike was saying, shaking his head. Looking down. "Knew it was a possibility. Don't know how I thought I'd be able to keep it from you, anyway."

Buffy turned more fully toward him, his words making her go cold all over. Her grip tightening around the strap of her bag. When his eyes came back to meet hers, she suddenly understood. The breath caught in her throat as she looked at him, his words from the other night flooding back to her all at once.

 _"_ _A little, here and there. Changes from year to year, how involved she wants to get."_

"Nobody knows we… _she_ owns the company, yeah? But they do know she's…an investor. An executive of sorts, if you wanna get technical about it." He paused, eyes scanning her face. Looking like he felt about as sick to his stomach as she was starting to when he exhaled and told her, "She's on the publishing board, Buffy."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

How…involved she wants to get.

She stood there, frozen, putting it together even as Spike was still talking.

"…rarely shows up to meeting," he continued, speaking in a rush now. Seemingly oblivious to the stricken expression steeling across Buffy's face. "Maybe once every six months, if that. Usually passes her vote off to me or dad, simply because she just doesn't bloody care that much. But…that was her just now. On the phone…"

 _"_ _Dru says it's just another way for her to make my life difficult."_

Buffy was still just staring at him. Wide eyed, slack jawed. Had that horrible, sinking, painfully nervous feeling in her gut because she knew what was coming next. Knew what he was going to tell her even before he opened his mouth to tell her.

"She's comin' in today."


	13. Chapter 13

**_-Tuesday, July 16th. 5:43pm.-_**

Buffy sat on the sofa in her apartment, a blanket draped over her lap and her knees tucked up into her chest. She was staring down at her knees, a mug of tea that had gone cold an hour ago in one hand and her cell phone resting in the palm of the other.

It was ringing. Again.

And she was ignoring it…again.

The temptation to swipe her thumb across the screen and answer it was stronger now than it had been the first three times, but she bit down on her lip and let it go to voicemail anyway.

Spike had been calling her all afternoon. She knew why. And because she knew why, she'd been ignoring it. Not because she didn't want to talk to him, but because she _really_ wanted to talk to him. In fact, he was the only person she really wanted to talk to. She'd tried talking to Faith when she'd first gotten home but hadn't even had twenty minutes before she'd had to leave for work. After changing out of her own work clothes and settling in on the sofa, she'd picked up her phone and called Dawn.

Which had been even less helpful than the vague twenty minutes she'd had with Faith. Not that it hadn't been great to hear from her little sister, because it had been. Totally. It just hadn't been the type of conversation Buffy'd needed to make her feel better. If anything, it had made her feel worse.

But the fact that now the only person she found herself wanting to talk to was the same person, the only person, she shouldn't talk to…well, it was making her head a little spinny. Her head had been about a million different variations on spinny already that day.

In her hand, the phone finally quit ringing and she breathed a tiny sigh, a mix of relief and frustration.

Until two minutes later, when there was a knock on her front door.

Buffy frowned, not making a move to get up at first. When the knock sounded again, she got up warily, throwing the blanket off her lap and setting her cold mug down on the coffee table, set her phone down beside it. Padding across the floor on bare feet, feeling weirdly like she shouldn't be making a lot of noise.

She stood on her tiptoes and peeked through the peep-hole, immediately balking and taking a step back even though she honestly wasn't all that surprised. Pausing just long enough to straighten her t-shirt and adjust her shorts, she quickly reached up to throw the deadbolt back and yank the door open.

Spike was standing there in front of her, both his hands braced up on the wall on either side of the door frame. His brow furrowed, eyes bright with what looked a lot to her like concern. And for just a moment, literally just one, Buffy completely forgot that she wasn't supposed to feel relieved that he was there. That she wasn't supposed to feel happy about him showing up at her apartment unannounced.

She stared at him for a minute, blinking, before finally opening her mouth to say…something. What exactly, she wasn't even sure. Torn somewhere between asking him what the hell he thought he was doing just showing up at her apartment and telling him just how incredibly glad she was to see him.

She didn't get a chance to do either because Spike beat her to it.

"Are you alright?" he asked, letting his hands slide down the door frame a little.

He looked…different than he had that morning. Disheveled. His button down shirt was untucked from his dress pants, the top two buttons undone, the tie he'd been wearing earlier missing all together.

And he was drenched.

Buffy'd known it had been storming. She'd heard the rain pick up earlier, after she'd gotten home. Had heard the wind and the droplets beating against her windows, but the blinds had been closed and she hadn't bothered to get up and really get a good look at the storm.

From the water that was now dripping off his platinum curls at the back of his neck, down his forehead and dropping onto his shirt, the dark purple fabric clinging to his chest like a second skin, she guessed it was coming down pretty hard.

Buffy shook her head, clearing it enough to finally get her own question out. "How did you even get my apartment number?"

"Cordelia," Spike said simply, not missing a beat. "She said you went home sick."

Well…that sort of made sense, she guessed. Spike would have eventually asked her old boss where she was if he hadn't been able to find her. Or get a hold of her.

"I…yeah, I did," she said, frowning more deeply at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I tried callin' first, you wouldn't pick up," he explained, tilting his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. Scanning her face like he was looking for something. Like he was trying to read her mind. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Buffy felt the muscles in her neck and shoulders tense a little, stepping a little ways back from the open door. Affecting as casual a tone as she could, she asked, "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

Spike answered her by raising an eyebrow.

"Don't insult me, pet," he said breezily, pulling his hands off the door frame and eyeing her knowingly through his lashes. She watched, her mouth a little dry, as he reached up and raked his fingers through his damp hair, slicking it back. A beat passed between them, his eyes drifting away from hers and over her shoulder, into the apartment behind her. Then, with a flippant gesture of his hand, he said, "Look, can I come in?"

Buffy's immediate reaction to that was to throw the door wide open and let him inside. Without a second's hesitation. Because he was here, standing in front of her. Soaked to the skin and concerned for her and wanting to talk, which was all she'd been wanting to do all day.

She wanted to reach forward and grab his hand and tug him inside, shutting the door and the outside world out in the process.

That's what she _wanted_ to do.

So instead she shook her head and said, "That's not a good idea."

She watched the knowing expression on his face melt away.

"Buffy," Spike began, a flicker of panic flashing in his eyes as he stepped closer to her and the door.

"Thanks for coming to check on me, but I'm fine." It took more effort than she wanted it to to step back from the door and begin to close it again. "I'll be back at work tomorrow."

She should have expected it, but when his hand flew out to stop the door from closing all the way it still managed to make her jump. His eyes were earnest as he said, "C'mon luv, don't do this."

Buffy sighed, both her hands braced on the back of the door. She gave Spike an exasperated look and tilted her head to the side, pressing her temple into the side of its frame. "Don't do _what_?"

And his go-to response: "Run away from me."

She sucked in her cheeks and narrowed her eyes, cheeks flushing hot.

"I'm not running away from you," Buffy insisted flatly, dropping her eyes down away from his. Unable to keep and hold eye contact with him for some reason, or maybe worrying she'd cave if she kept looking at him a minute longer. "I'm doing what I should have done in the first place and drawing the you—employer, me—employee line in the sand."

Spike pushed a harder on the door and lowered his voice. "You're scared."

Buffy pulled the door back in response, opening it up wider and matching her voice to his. "You're _married_."

Spike let up a little on the door and shifted back a step, frowning. Buffy watched as another drop of water fell from a single curl that had twisted back down over his forehead, trailing off the tip of his nose and reminding her that he was probably absolutely freezing standing there in her air conditioned hallway. Brow furrowed, he murmured, "You already knew that."

"You made it easy to forget," Buffy said softly, taking her hands off the door in order to cross them protectively over her chest.

In front of her, Spike scoffed. A short, frustrated sound, and Buffy could picture the look on his face without even needing to look up at him.

"So, what?" he asked, his voice hard, annoyed now. "Knowin' it and seein' it are somehow two different things?"

And at that, she met his eyes evenly and said, "Yes."

 ** _-Tuesday, July 16th. 8:38am.-_**

Buffy just stared at him for a long moment. One hand gripping the strap of her bag, the other braced on the back of the chair in front of her. Trying to wrap her brain around those words.

Cecily.

Spike's wife.

Coming in today.

Buffy shook her head, blinking her eyes. Spike looked like he was about to launch himself across the room.

"Your wife is coming," she said slowly, standing stone still in the center of Spike's office. Her hand gripped the strap of her bag so tightly she thought her knuckles might break through the skin. Clearing her throat, her eyes never leaving Spike's, she said, "To the meeting today." She paused and pointed down to the floor for emphasis. "The one that's in twenty minutes."

She watched as he nodded, his eyes searching hers for something undefinable. "She's on her way now."

"As in she's on her way to the office right now?" Buffy clarified, her voice pitching just a little too high.

"Yeah. Bloody..." Spike trailed off and tipped his head back, closing his eyes. " _Fuck_ , she'll be here any minute."

Her mouth running impossibly dry, the hand grabbing onto her bag started to shake just a little. Not nerves, she didn't think. Not exactly. Just a weird involuntary reaction to hearing those words. To hearing herself say them.

 _Your wife._ Spike's wife. Cecily.

Buffy was going to meet her today.

Except…no. She wasn't.

Buffy frowned at her boss, narrowing her eyes slightly and feeling her hand relax a little. "And that's why you don't want me in the meeting," she said simply, not a question. Her voice accusing. Suddenly incredibly annoyed. "Because she'll be there."

Spike shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, shifting his head back down and meeting her gaze again.

"No," he said instantly, then immediately paused, backpedaling at the expression on Buffy's face now. "Well, okay, yeah."

"I can't believe you," she snapped, pushing her hand off the leather chair and taking an impulsive step backward.

"Buffy, don't do that," Spike said quickly. And he was moving around his desk before she could get another word out. Coming to a stop just shy of her personal space and looking down into her face with stormy eyes, lowering his voice. "It isn't...I just don't want you exposed to that. Not now, not when-"

"You're _hiding_ me from your wife," Buffy corrected, cutting him off sharply and immediately stepping away from him.

Spike frowned and took a step closer, countering the one she'd just taken back. "Now, that's not fair."

"Then tell me why you're all panicky," she demanded angrily, her eyes blazing up into his. "And why didn't you just _tell me_ that to begin with? What, do you not trust yourself to be with us both in the same room?" She paused and narrowed her eyes at him, feeling unexpectedly and strangely hurt as she asked, "Or are you just worried I'll see something you don't want me to?"

"No," Spike said instantly, his voice still low but urgent now. Like it was unbelievably important to him in that moment that she knew that wasn't the reason at all. "No, it's just...complicated. I don't know how she'll react to you."

Buffy glared up at him, tilting her head to the side. "You _do_ know hiding me is more incriminating than keeping me around, don't you?"

Spike mimicked her, narrowing his eyes in return. "Which just tells me you don't understand what I'm actually trying to do. I—" He was cut off by a loud knock on his office door, making them both suddenly freeze in place. All the irritation and tension vanishing, suddenly replaced with a tension of a completely different kind. Both Spike's and Buffy's eyes went wide, and they each took an impulsive step back away from one another.

That was it, then. They'd spent all of her viable duck and cover time arguing over why it was she needed to do a bomb drill in the first place.

Eyes slightly panicked, shoulders tense, Spike swallowed, cleared his throat and called, "Come in."

Buffy wasn't sure what she was expecting to see when the door opened. She'd never given much thought to what Cecily might look like. If she'd have dark hair, or maybe be a blonde. If she'd be tall and leggy or dainty and petite. Pretty or plain.

What she did know, definitively, was that she was a woman.

So she was completely thrown off guard when a man walked through the door.

His head down, a small stack of stapled papers in his hands. He was wearing a traditional looking black suit, white button down and a red and blue tie, his hair cropped short and styled, dark on the top and peppered on either side with flecks of silvery grey.

"Hey kid, I'm glad I caught you," he was saying, voice smooth, keeping his eyes on the paper in his hand and kicking the door shut again behind him. "I was just taking a look at this proposal on my way over and—" He stopped talking as soon as he looked up, his eyes finding and landing on Buffy immediately. And as soon as they did, she knew exactly who it was she was looking at. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was interrupting."

Next to her, Buffy felt Spike relax a little. Relieved, probably, that the person standing in front of them now wasn't who they'd both obviously thought it would be.

"No, you're fine." He lifted his hand and pressed two fingers against his forehead, letting out a little sigh. "Uh, we were just wrapping up here anyway." He dropped his hand away from his head and crossed his arm, offering the older man a strained smile. "What about the proposal?"

"Oh, right," he tore his gaze away from Buffy's and turned back to Spike, gesturing with the papers in his hand. "I just wanted to tell you I thought it was a particularly strong one, that's all." He promptly dropped the papers back down to his side with a smack and turned bright, twinkling eyes back toward her. "Who's your friend?"

Spike chuckled at that, his shoulders relaxing a tiny bit more as he shared a furtive glance with Buffy. "My _friend_ is our newest editorial intern," he explained, gesturing between the two of them as he made the cursory introduction, "Henry Pratt, I'd like for you to meet Buffy Summers."

She wasn't surprised to hear the name. She'd known who it was that had walked in the door the moment she'd locked eyes with him. Henry Pratt was a handsome man, with the salt and pepper curls and a kind smile. He had little laugh lines around his eyes, and the deep azure blue of the irises was the exact same shade of blue as his son's. He was admittedly entirely different from what she'd expected. More relaxed, maybe. Or younger. Not that he looked younger, exactly. He was obviously in his late sixties at least, but he _felt_ young. The suit he wore was tailored impeccably, his jawline strong, but it was his eyes that felt the most youthful.

He had a little American flag pin clipped to the lapel of his suit jacket.

"Buffy," Henry said, and stuck his hand out. He grinned warmly at her and Buffy noticed his dimples immediately. "That a family name?"

"A family nickname," she said, smiling back and taking his hand in hers. "Sort of just stuck."

"I like it," he told her, pumping her hand twice in a firm but gentle shake before releasing her, tucking his hand casually down into his pants pocket in a way that reminded her every inch of the bleached blonde to her right. "It's…sunny."

She smiled again, feeling unexpectedly a little bit star struck by the man standing in front of her. Putting her hand back on the strap of her bag she said shyly, "Thank you."

Spike shot her an affectionate sidelong glance that lasted all of a half second before he was clearing his throat and addressing his father again. "Buffy's been working with me since early June, specifically on _Hollow Hill_." He folded his arms over his chest and shifted to rest his hip against the back of the leather chair. Tilted his chin toward the papers in Henry's hand. "Did a lot of the leg work on that proposal you like so much."

"Ah, well then," Henry tossed a good natured wink in Buffy's direction, "no wonder it was so much more impressive than the last one you threw together."

That had Spike barking an indignant sounding, "Oi!"

His father ignored him and turned his full attention toward Buffy, stage whispering to her in a teasing voice, "Literally Buffy, he _threw_ it together. The morning before the publishing board, if I remember right." He chuckled and quirked a brow at his son. "The thing was a damn mess."

"Still got that manuscript past committee, didn't I?" Spike challenged, his voice lightly mocking as he tilted his head to the side and raised both of his eyebrows.

"Only by the grace of your good looks and charm," Henry fired back.

Spike smirked appreciatively at his dad. "And I wonder where I learned that from."

Henry rolled his eyes and sighed, but he was smiling. "Gets that razor sharp wit from his mother," he teased Buffy.

 _And the razor sharp cheekbones from his father_ , she thought to herself.

"And all the attitude from you, old man," Spike said lightly.

Henry matched his son's smirk effortlessly, his eyes doing the same sparking thing that Buffy had first noticed about Spike as he said, "You should just be glad you actually have the brains to back all that attitude up, kiddo. Otherwise that hair would be even more ridiculous than it is."

Buffy couldn't help the smile from curving her lips again as she watched the father and son banter back and forth.

"Mmhm," Spike murmured, shifting his hip off the back of the chair again. "Remind me how ridiculous it is an hour from now after I've won over the pub board yet again. And _also_ remind me how many times I've asked you not to call me kiddo at work." He paused, shot Buffy another furtive glance and added, "Or ever."

She had to bite down on her bottom lip to keep from admitting out loud that she actually thought it was kind of adorable. Enjoying the obvious camaraderie between the two, the very obvious affection. That hint of grudging respect Buffy'd detected from Spike the very first time she'd ever spoken with him about his father. And somehow knowing everything she knew now, everything this man had done for Spike and Drusilla and their mother, how dedicated Spike himself had been…and still was…to helping his father when he needed it. It made the little moments happening between them now that much sweeter to her.

The moment was almost enough to make Buffy forget about the anxiety she'd been feeling up until Henry had come floating into the office.

And then there was another knock on the door.

 ** _-Tuesday, July 16th. 5:55pm.-_**

"Let's just talk about this," Spike said softly, keeping his eyes trained on Buffy's. She was still hovering in the doorway, her temple still pressed into the cool side of the metal door.

And when she finally opened her mouth to speak, it took way more energy than it should have for her to say, "Just go home, Spike."

"Can't do it, pet." He shook his head, raking his fingers back through his hair again. "Can't leave here knowin' you're upset."

"I'm not upset," Buffy lied.

Spike took a slight step back from the doorway and frowned, his eyes carefully scanning her face. They regarded each other in silence for a minute, Buffy feeling the entire time like he was trying to crawl inside her brain and read her deepest thoughts.

It was just beginning to completely wig her out when he suddenly asked, "Is Faith home?"

"No," Buffy answered without thinking, caught off guard by the question. "She's at work."

"Then why can't I come in?" he pressed.

"Because, you can't just..." she trailed off at the expression on his face, his eyebrows shooting up high in challenge. Buffy stared at him, bit down on her lip and shook her head. " _God_ , you shouldn't even be here. What if someone sees—"

"Then do you _really_ wanna have this out with me in the hallway?" Spike asked, undaunted, his eyes still searching her face.

Well, when he put it that way. No. No she didn't. If someone saw him standing outside her apartment, soaking wet from the rain and looking like some delicious Nora Roberts character, pinning her with that bone-melting expression on his face and asking to come inside. Well, she wasn't sure, but it might be more damning than just letting him inside.

Just for a few minutes.

"You can't stay," Buffy said softly, and she wasn't sure if she was needing him to know that or if she was needing to remind herself.

"I won't," he promised, nodding his head. "Just a few minutes."

Buffy inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly through her nose. Then she nodded and stepped aside, leaving room for Spike to step inside her apartment. His shoulder brushed hers as he stepped past her and she couldn't help the compulsive lean forward out into the hallway, glancing from one end to the other, like she halfway expected someone to be standing out there watching them.

There wasn't.

So she stepped back into the apartment and shut the door, throwing the deadbolt in place and turning around to face Spike.

It was weird, she decided. Seeing him there in her space. Not…bad weird, necessarily. Just different. She was used to seeing him in his office, behind his big mahogany desk with his hand written notes and his shirt sleeves rolled up. She was even sort of used to seeing him in his condo, the place that seemed to fit him so unbelievably well, with the leather sofas and the big, heavy bookshelf with the record player and the decanter. This was different. Normally they were on his turf for these types of conversations.

Now that they were on hers, he almost seemed like he wasn't sure exactly what to do. Standing in front of her with his hands in his pockets, looking just a little bit sheepish now, though Buffy wasn't sure why.

"This is where you live, then," he said quietly, looking around the living room, over into the kitchen, turning to glance back over his shoulder toward the two closed bedroom doors. She followed the line of his eyes with her own.

"Yeah," she said, her own voice soft, leaning back into the door behind her.

Spike turned back around and met her eyes, the corner of his lips curving upward slightly. "'S nice."

Above them, her air conditioning kicked on, and she watched the slight look of discomfort pass across his features. If he hadn't been cold before now he was probably freezing.

And Buffy was starting to get majorly distracted by the clinging fabric of his shirt.

She stared at him for another moment longer before she made a decision, knowing there was every possibility that it could blow up in her face somehow. But there was no way she could stand there and attempt to have this conversation with him if he was all shivery and…wet.

She swallowed.

"Take that wet shirt off, you're gonna get sick," Buffy told him, moving through the living room before she could see if he was doing what she'd asked or not. She hurried into her bedroom and on into her small bathroom, plucking a clean towel off the rack beside the shower. Then she moved back into the bedroom and over to her dresser, digging around in the top drawer until she found the oversized sweatshirt she'd been looking for, Pepperdine emblazoned across the front of it, and tugged it out.

When she came back out into the living room, Spike was standing near her sofa. He hadn't removed the button down like she'd asked, but had his hands poised over the third button from the top like he'd been thinking about it. His eyes were focused on the doorway she'd just stepped out of, his smirk widening just a little as he took in the sight of what she had in her hands.

Buffy kept her eyes carefully focused up on his face as she approached him, handing him both the towel and the sweatshirt at the same time. He took them from her, looking amused by her obvious distraction.

"Thanks." He tossed the towel over his shoulder and glanced down at the navy blue hooded sweatshirt in his hands. Then he quirked a brow and glanced back up at Buffy, asking, "I wanna know who's this is?"

She wrinkled her nose, having more than halfway expected that. "Mine?"

"Mmhm," Spike purred, but didn't push the subject. Probably because he _was_ freezing. He set the sweatshirt and the towel down on the arm of the sofa and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. His eyes shot back over her shoulder and he indicated with a tilt of his chin, asking, "That your bedroom there?"

"Spike," she warned lightly, turning her back as he began to peel the royal purple fabric off his shoulders.

"Just curious," he responded, a smirk in his voice, the rustling of wet fabric hitting the floor.

"Well, don't be," Buffy said, but there was no venom in it. She stepped over to the coffee table, eyes studiously glued to the tea mug as she picked it up and headed back toward her tiny kitchen. She reached the stove and the still-warm kettle on top of it, setting her mug down. "Umm," she began slowly, finally risking a glance back up.

Which was a mistake.

Spike was looking at her, not smugly or seductively. He wasn't even smirking anymore. He was just…looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to finish her thought. He'd picked up the fluffy white towel from off the arm of the sofa and had wrapped it around his shoulders, using the long end on the right to tousle and dry his hair. When she was silent just a little too long, her eyes automatically going to the V of his hips, he cleared his throat.

Buffy's eyes went wide and shot immediately back up to Spike's, finishing her previous thought in a rush. "Do you want something to drink?"

"Whiskey?" the bleached blonde asked, pulling the towel away from his hair and off his shoulders, leaving the platinum curls in tousled disarray, reminding Buffy way too much of the way he'd looked the first night they met. She watched him fold the towel and set it back down on the sofa, picking up the sweatshirt there but not making a move to put it on. Just standing there shirtless, tousled, and completely nonchalant. And Buffy had no one to blame but herself.

Whiskey.

Because _that_ would end well.

Buffy gestured back toward the kettle on the stove and said, "I was thinking more like…tea."

"Oh," Spike said, frowning, then immediately shaking his head. "Then no."

"Okay," she murmured, lifting the kettle and pouring fresh water on top of the cold water in her mug and watching out of the corner of her eye as Spike finally slipped the navy blue material over his head.

Thank God for small favors.

She picked up the mug and took a small sip of it, fighting the urge to make a face when she did and moving back out of the kitchen and toward the sofa. She brushed past him and set the tea down on the coffee table, picking up the throw blanket she'd had draped across her lap earlier and turning around to face Spike. They eyed each other for a moment, both of them obviously feeling a little awkward, before wordlessly sinking down on opposite ends of the sofa, leaving the middle cushion open in between them.

A beat passed.

Then Spike, apparently deciding to just launch headlong into the conversation and tackle the giant elephant in the room, said, "You met my wife today."

Buffy sighed and nodded. "I met your wife today."

 ** _-Tuesday, July 16th. 8:47am.-_**

Cecily Pratt was exactly what Buffy had envisioned…if what she'd envisioned was virtually perfection personified.

She had lustrous dark hair that was artfully done up, curls swept up off her neck and woven into an intricate knot at the crown of her head. A style that probably had taken hours, and that Buffy was sure she probably hadn't done herself. Pearl studs in her ears, a pearl necklace around her neck. Large hazel eyes, a soft, round face, bright pink cheeks. And an absolutely devastating smile dressed in a perfectly understated rose lipstick.

"Here you two are," she said, her voice bright and higher than Buffy would have guessed as she stepped into the office, not bothering to shut the door behind her again. She smiled and glanced back and forth between the two Pratt men. "I thought I might find you tucked away in here."

She was wearing a plum colored dress that was tastefully fitted to her petite frame but not tight, collared in black trim with matching black suede pumps. And Buffy watched, frozen to the spot, as those black pumps carried the woman across the Persian carpet and directly over to Spike, where she leaned up and brushed her lips over the corner of his mouth in a show of a casual kiss.

Buffy's stomach dropped to her knees, a roll of slow, burning nausea boiling up from her stomach and into the back of her throat. Instantly feeling abruptly and painfully jealous. And instantly after that, feeling ashamed of feeling jealous.

Cecily pulled back slightly, reaching her thumb up to wipe the small pink smudge away from Spike's cheek and saying, "Starting the meeting a bit early, are you?"

If she didn't know better, Buffy would have thought the gesture affectionate. But the tension in the bleached blonde's shoulders gave it away, the way Cecily's thumb was rubbing just a little too hard to be truly sweet. The strained half-smile on Spike's face doing nothing to hide the storm in his eyes.

"Just catchin' up," he said stiffly, his eyes shifting toward Buffy in a way that was very clearly involuntary. Checking her reaction, she figured. Wondering what she was thinking about whatever it was she was seeing now.

Honestly, she wasn't even sure.

She was too busy wondering if she'd be able to sneak out of the open office door before drawing Cecily's attention.

From the other side of the room, Henry spoke up. Head cocked to the side, his eyes on Cecily's back, he said, "Well, this is a surprise."

The little brunette pulled her hand away from Spike and turned around, smiling in a shockingly genuine and warm way toward the older man. "A nice one, I hope."

"I didn't know you were coming today," Henry replied, smiling just as warmly back. Not even the slightest hint of irritation, let alone loathing. He seemed genuinely, and pleasantly, surprised to see her standing in Spike's office.

And that was all it took for Buffy to understand.

Spike's father didn't know about the blackmail, probably had no idea that his son was trapped in a loveless and spiteful marriage. Spike, for whatever insane reason he probably had, was keeping it from him.

Her stomach dropped all over again, suddenly getting the full gravity of the situation now. Fully understanding exactly what it was Spike had been trying to keep her from.

"What?" Cecily asked in response to Henry's assertion, raising her eyebrow and glancing back toward Spike. "Will didn't mention it?"

Buffy frowned, shooting a glance toward her boss.

 _Will?_

"I don't think I really gave him a chance to," the older man admitted on a low chuckle, his eyes bright as he gazed at the couple in front of him. They weren't touching now, but they were standing very close together. Close enough that Buffy felt like she was seeing something she'd never been meant to see. A feeling that was only reinforced every time Spike shot her a furtive glance. She just stood there, unmoving. Wondering if maybe, if she just…stood still and stayed quiet, if she might be able to melt into the bookshelf behind her and never be noticed at all.

"I was just gettin' round to that bit," Spike said flatly, addressing his father and giving the petite brunette beside him another strained smile.

Cecily smiled up at him in her own almost strained way and nodded, turning her attention back to Henry to explain. "It's been a little while since I've been by the office, I've been meaning for weeks now to pop in. Will mentioned the committee meeting this morning and I thought, you know, why not. Today would be as good a day as any."

And then it happened.

She turned those big, bright eyes on Buffy, that blinding smile never leaving her lips as she asked, "And who's this?"

Buffy's head was full on spinning now. Pinned beneath the gaze of Spike's wife, of the woman she'd only heard about before now, she couldn't move. Could barely breathe. Her hand tightened just a little more on the strap of her bag and she felt like she was going to be sick.

How totally weird would it look if she just made a break for the door? Too obvious? Too _I've seen your husband naked more than once_? Or maybe it would just make her look crazy, which honestly, probably wasn't the worst case scenario here. Better for the other woman to think she was a total nut job or a spaz than to know the truth. She stepped forward, prepared to take off at a sprint toward the door.

But then Spike was making the introduction and there was nothing Buffy could do but smile at the woman in front of her as he said, "Cecily, I'd like you to meet Buffy Summers." He paused, cleared his throat purposefully. "Miss Summers, my wife, Cecily Pratt."

There were so many things in that last sentence that had her head reeling, she felt for a moment like she might literally topple over. Admittedly, Buffy had never given much thought to how things would go if and when she met Spike's wife. It had been an abstract thought, a non-issue. Up until Sunday, she never would have imagined a scenario where her job working under Spike would have ever necessitated dealing with his wife at all. It had been entirely possible that she could have lasted out her entire six months at Pratt Publishing and never have had to come in direct contact with Cecily Pratt at all. And if she had given any thought to ever meeting his wife, to how she would have preferred it to happen, it certainly wouldn't have been like this. Without any time to prepare, without knowing what to expect, without having had any tips or coaching on how to address the older woman. If she _had_ had time to prepare, she probably wouldn't be feeling so completely intimidated now.

But she hadn't, so she was.

So now, faced with the woman who honestly was next to nothing like what she'd been picturing in her mind up to that point, Buffy did the only thing she could do. Smiled brightly, unclenched her right hand from around the strap of her bag and offered it out, saying, "It's nice to meet you."

Cecily smiled at her and slipped her perfectly manicured hand, her nails the same shade of pink as her lips, into Buffy's. Shook it once. "It's nice to meet _you_ , Buffy."

 _Oh, God._

Buffy swallowed and pulled her hand back to her side a little too quickly, fighting to keep the smile on her face, fighting to keep it casual and not strained. Had she only imagined that, or had there been a little flash of _something_ in the hazel eyes just then?

"Buffy is Will's newest editorial intern," Henry supplied kindly, eyes still twinkling as he drew her attention back to him and grinned at her encouragingly, showing off those Pratt family dimples again. Where it had warmed and relaxed her before, now all it did was set her further on edge. She eyed the open doorway, wondering if it was still too late to make a run for it.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Cecily said brightly, and God, it actually sounded like she meant it. Her hazel eyes settled on Buffy once more. "You want to be an editor, then?"

She didn't say anything right away. Her tongue felt thick and heavy, like someone had glued it to the roof of her mouth. She wasn't even sure what she wanted to say, having momentarily completely forgotten the answer to the question.

"I…think so, yeah," she began slowly, unable to keep her eyes away from Spike's. Looking to him instinctively for some kind of signal that she should answer, that she should speak at all. He gave her the subtlest of subtle nods, a flick of his chin in the direction of his wife indicating to Buffy that she should keep her attention focused on her and not him. She obeyed immediately, saying, "So far I've just really been enjoying learning about the industry as a whole."

"Well you've certainly chosen the very best to learn from," Cecily said, turning to glance over her shoulder at Spike. "Will is brilliant at this job." The two shared a look that, again, might have been mistaken for affectionate if Buffy hadn't known to look for the ticking muscle in Spike's jaw. Or the way his eyes shot instantly back to hers as soon as Cecily turned back around, her voice sunny. "And you must be quite brilliant yourself to have been selected from so many candidates for this internship."

Again, it sounded more sincere than condescending, which was only messing with Buffy's already spinny head even more.

"I'm just grateful for the opportunity," she answered the brunette politely, the strained smile still plastered across her face. It was starting to make her cheeks hurt, and her stomach was still not overly excited about holding onto the half of a blueberry muffin she'd stuffed into her mouth before leaving that morning, but she didn't know what else to do.

"Buffy put together the proposal for today," Henry said, taking the small stack of papers he'd still been holding in his hand and holding them out for Cecily to take. "It's pretty impressive stuff."

Buffy watched as she brunette woman took the papers from him and immediately began scanning through the content, her eyes flying over the text on the page impossibly fast. She immediately tensed up, shoulders up around her neck as she said, "I…I mean, I helped." She found herself taking a step forward, almost like she felt a sudden impulse to defend herself and her work. Like she might actually rip the pages out of her hand. God, why did she feel so _exposed_? "A little. But—"

"Pretty and smart," Cecily murmured evenly, cutting her off mid-thought and glancing up once more. Her lips quirked up slightly on one side and in that bright, lilting accent she said something that made Buffy's blood run cold. "No wonder my husband's been in such a good mood lately."

She balked at that, her face paling and her lips falling open as she blinked numbly at the older woman. For a moment that couldn't have lasted longer than a second, but what felt like an eternity to Buffy, the air in the office grew heavy and thick.

And then Spike stepped forward and draped his arm across Cecily's shoulders, squeezing the side of her arm and saying lightly, "No better a mood than usual, kitten."

It was clearly meant to be a sweet pet name, a term of endearment, but there was a hard edge to it. And the flash in his eyes when he met his wife's gaze was subtle but there. And very, very cold. The casual comment seemed to smooth things over, if only for a moment. Had effectively drawn the attention away from Cecily's comment, which Buffy guessed now had been the point to begin with.

It didn't do anything to make her feel any less green-eyed monstery that Spike's arm was still wrapped around his wife's shoulders, though.

And Cecily, for her part, merely ignored the comment and his faux-affection all together, never once taking her eyes off Buffy for a moment. Large, discerning eyes glued to Buffy's face, a smile that still felt shockingly genuine trained on her lips, she gestured with the proposal in her hand and said, "Well, thank you for all your hard work on this, Buffy."

"It's no problem," she said quickly, sensing her opening. Smiling back at Cecily, and then over toward Henry, she said, "It was nice to meet you both." Then to Spike, pointing toward the doorway and starting to move across the room. "I'll just—"

She was almost to the door, to the open, breathable hallway beyond it, when Henry Pratt called after her.

"Weren't you coming into the board meeting?"

Buffy froze, literally two feet in front of the door and her immediate salvation, and spun slowly back around to address his innocent question. "I, um...no Mr. Pratt. I can't attend the meeting today. I have some other work to do this morning for...Mr. Pratt." Buffy laughed awkwardly and gestured toward Spike. "The other Mr. Pratt. So I'll probably just go do that work...at my desk." She jerked her thumb back over her shoulder and started backing up again, knowing how totally bizarre she was behaving and just not finding it in her to care. All she wanted now was _out_. "Down the hall."

"Oh, now that's ridiculous," Cecily said immediately, turning around to face Spike, looking up into his face. "Why make the poor girl miss out on a perfectly good learning opportunity? That's why she's here, isn't it Will?" She asked, lowering her voice a little. Not seductive, but not indifferent, either. Somewhere distinctly unsettling in between. And Buffy watched, her hands clenching thoughtlessly into fists, as the open palm of Cecily's left hand came to rest in the middle of Spike's chest. She lightly danced two fingers upward, the impossibly massive diamond ring there gleaming and glittering in the office lights. "To learn _everything_ you have to teach her?"

Buffy swallowed, mouth cottony, and ducked her gaze down to the floor. There was no way she'd heard that right. She was just imagining the emphasis on that word.

Wasn't she?

She wasn't sure. She didn't want to stick around to _be_ sure. She wanted to leave. Now. Her cheeks were on fire, the shameful, completely and totally irrational protectiveness she felt over Spike bubbling up in her stomach getting to the point of nearly overwhelming. She honestly didn't think she'd be able to keep her facial expressions in check much longer.

"Are you feeling alright?"

Buffy whipped her gaze back up to find all three pairs of eyes focused on her. Spike's a little pained, still stormy and obviously concerned, Henry's curious and kind and Cecily's just slightly narrowed.

 _Oh, boy._

"Yes," she said carefully, addressing Cecily since the question had come from her, trying her damndest not to let her eyes stray over toward the woman's hand, still pressed into her husband's chest. Buffy cleared her throat and tried to smile again. "I'm fine. Sorry, too much coffee this morning I think, just a little jittery. I'm…gonna go find Cordelia." She allowed her eyes to flicker up one last time to Spike's, saying as nonchalantly as she could, "Good luck today."

And then she turned and stepped out of the office, barreling at near full speed back down the door-lined hallway and around the corner, out into the main cubicle space, past the glass conference room and straight into the women's bathroom.

Where she fully intended to stay until the publishing board meeting had ended.

 ** _\- Tuesday, July 16th. 6:11pm.-_**

"What all did she say to you?" Spike asked, his eyes intent, entirely focused on Buffy's face as they sat across from each other on the sofa.

Buffy dropped her gaze down to her bent knees, absently plucking at the fabric of the grey throw in her lap as she did. He'd asked her this same question twice since they'd been sitting there. She'd answer him with an obvious lie the first time. _Nothing_. Then a half-truth the second. _Nothing about you_.

Now, she told him a little more. Still only a half-truth, but a bigger half-truth than the previous answer. "She didn't say anything about us, if that's what you're really asking. Or about your marriage-that-isn't." Buffy sighed, looking up and gazing at Spike through her lashes. Trying to find the right words to explain the moment she'd experience that morning without really explaining it. She bit down on her lip, nibbled on it. Then sat back against the sofa's pillow and said, "It wasn't… _she_ just wasn't what I expected, I guess."

Spike cocked his head to the side, a deadpan sort of expression passing over his face. His lashes fluttered a few times and he said pointedly, "And by that you mean she wasn't what _I_ made her out to be."

"Well she wasn't exactly a hideous snarling ogre, no," Buffy shot back, narrowing her eyes at him. Annoyed. Both by the slightly accusing tone of his voice and by the fact that he was so absolutely dead on.

But something in her words, or maybe just the way she'd said them, had him softening. Azure eyes warming again, he risked a shift forward, leaning hos body closer toward hers. His hand outstretched, the tips of his fingers were brushing absently over the blanket-covered top of her foot.

Head still tilted slightly to the side, he lowered his voice thoughtfully. "Never said she was, luv."

That had Buffy pausing and dropping her eyes again, feeling a little sheepish for snapping at him. He was right. He'd never once said anything truly damning about the woman he was married to. He'd never said she was an evil troll with a witch's nose and red, glowy eyes. Or a pitchfork and a tail. All he'd done was tell her she was manipulative. Tell her _why_ she felt like she needed to be so manipulative. But he'd never out and out called her a bad person. Not really.

Buffy guessed now that had been in her own mind. That she'd built Cecily up into being some awful, horrible woman with no redeeming value whatsoever. A one dimensional villain. Sure, she should have known that wouldn't be the case. That nobody is ever that one-sided.

So maybe she'd just hoped.

She'd seen a little of that manipulative side of Cecily today. What she hadn't been prepared to see was the more genuine side. The side Spike had probably initially fallen for.

"You're right," she said softly now, raising her eyebrows and nodding her head. "You didn't." Her eyes found Spike's again, searching his face. "You were with her for a reason, I guess." Then, a quiet afterthought, she added, "She's really pretty by the way."

He wasn't amused. "Buffy."

"What?" She asked, shrugging. "It's true."

"That what all the fuss is about?" Spike frowned at her, brow furrowing as he placed his elbow up on the back of the sofa and leaned into it. "That you think she's pretty?"

"Of course not," Buffy said dismissively, frowning deeply at him.

A half lie this time. It wasn't like Cecily being beautiful didn't bother Buffy. Hello, she was a red blooded female, of course it bugged a little. It just wasn't the exact thing that had had her hiding out at home all afternoon.

"Well, _somethin'_ spooked you enough to send you running for the bloody hills this morning, luv. I just want to understand what." He leaned closer to her again, the palm of his hand now closing over the top of her foot. The soft pressure doing more to ground her in the moment than any words he might have said. He squinted his eyes a little, giving her that slightly wiggy impression again that he was trying to see into her brain. "Did she threaten you? Or somehow threaten me _through_ you?"

Buffy sighed and pursed her lips, feeling the urge to cave in and tell him everything starting to feel a little overwhelming. "Not exactly."

"Then _what_ , pet?" Spike asked, his voice soft now. Gentle, somehow exasperated and cajoling all at the same time. "What was it?"

There was a long pause, a drawn out moment between them. Buffy knew if she told Spike what had happened, and why she'd been so wigged out, that he'd be impossibly quick to reassure her otherwise. That he'd jump to tell her she was wrong, that she'd imagined it, that there was nothing to be worried about.

And it bothered her now, that she desperately wanted to tell him so he _could_ tell her all those things. She knew that was why she'd been avoiding talking to him about it in the first place. She didn't want him to tell her it was okay. Not really.

Or she did want him to tell her exactly that, and that was a whole different issue all together.

So why she dropped her voice to a whisper and began to tell him everything, she wasn't even sure.

 ** _-Tuesday, July 16th. 11:36am.-_**

Buffy eventually had had to leave the lady's room. She'd waited as long as she possibly could, but despite having somewhat made up the line about having other work to do, she actually…did have some other work she needed to do. She'd been on high alert through the morning, avoiding making any kind of eye contact with anyone in the glass conference room. Going well out of her way to avoid walking too close to it.

Not that it had done her any good in the long run.

Cecily found her when she was on her way back to her desk from the large copy machine across the office.

"Oh, Buffy," she said, smiling sweetly as she stepped in front of her, blocking her path and making her take a stutter step backward. "Good, I was hoping I'd run into you again."

Buffy blinked at her, scanning the area briefly for any sign of Spike or Henry. Finding neither of the Pratt men anywhere nearby, she blinked again and focused back on the woman in front of her. Wrapping her arms around her papers and tucking them into her chest, she asked, "You were?"

"Don't look so surprised," the brunette said lightly, tilting her head to the side. There was something in her eyes Buffy couldn't quite place, the same sort of disquieting gleam she'd seen there before. "I was certain Will wouldn't make a point to tell you so I wanted to let you know that _Hollow Hill_ passed today."

"Pratt's going to purchase it?" Buffy asked, ignoring the subtle jab at Spike, unable to keep the surprise and slight pleasure out of her voice. Her own genuine curiosity about how the meeting had gone coming out in spite of herself.

The older woman smiled disarmingly at her enthusiasm and nodded, saying, "Congratulations on your first successful committee." Then she paused, frowning slightly as though she was considering something. "You should have been in there today."

Buffy felt insanely uncomfortable as she ducked her gaze, wondering why receiving praise from this woman was equal parts wig worthy and satisfying all at once. "Oh, well...I barely helped, really. Spi—" She cut herself off quickly, swallowing the all too familiar nickname before the whole thing could get out.

But not before Cecily had caught the slip _._ Hazel eyes narrowing slightly, knowingly, when Buffy chanced a glance up at her again.

 _Crap._

Buffy straightened her shoulders and corrected quickly, "Mr. Pratt wrote most of it. The important parts."

"You've been here for six weeks?" the petite brunette asked, her eyes shifting down toward the papers Buffy had tucked against her chest, lingering just a little longer than she felt comfortable with on the fingers of her left hand, before fluttering back up.

"Um, yeah," she shifted from foot to foot, feeling weirdly exposed all over again. And like the question was way more than what it seemed. "Since June."

Cecily still had that soft smile on her lips, eyes and voice innocently curious. "And you've been working under Will that whole time?"

Buffy was about ninety percent sure _that_ question was way more than what it seemed. So she answered without missing a beat, choosing her own words as carefully as she was beginning to think Cecily had chosen hers. "No, actually. I only really started working directly for him about a month ago."

A brief beat passed between them. Then, Cecily shifting back on her black pumps and folding her arms casually over her chest, she asked, "You think very highly of him, don't you?"

It wasn't an accusation even though it seemed to have come out of nowhere. It didn't even hold any of the same slight double meaning Buffy'd been sensing from several of the others. It seemed genuine, and interested.

But for whatever reason, she paused before answering this time. Wondering if she needed to keep being very cautious about the words she was choosing, the way she phrased her responses. She felt inexplicably like she was being tested. Which she realized might have been entirely a product of her own flashing red light paranoia, but also felt like it might be possible.

She didn't want to risk it either way.

So Buffy nodded and said simply, "He's very good at his job."

Cecily's lips quirked up into an appreciative, slightly wry smirk at that. "That he is," she agreed quietly, her eyes searching Buffy's face. "William really is quite brilliant, isn't he? Certainly the most cunning man I've ever known."

The word felt like another subtle dig at Spike. Not clever, or intelligent, or even shrewd. _Cunning_.

"He loves this company," Buffy replied, unthinking. The words out of her lips before she could stop them, before she even realized what she was saying or that she maybe shouldn't be saying it at all. That they weren't even really a fitting response to the passing comment Cecily had made.

As if sensing all of this at the same time, the other woman raised her eyebrows and chuckled airily. Her hazel eyes did that flashing thing again when she said teasingly, "Sometimes I think he loves it more than me."

Buffy froze in place, could practically feel the color draining from her cheeks as she stared across at Spike's wife. The words had been said with all the care and informality of any other lighthearted joke, the way two friends might banter casually about something that's so obviously a non-issue. This though. This was a huge issue. And Buffy felt again like she was being tested. Like her every reaction, the slightest shift in her body language, would be a tell that she knew exactly how very true that simple, throwaway statement actually was.

"He's very committed," Buffy finally responded, ignoring the way her hands unconsciously curled a little more tightly around the papers in her hands. Another gut reaction, another rush of words that would have been better kept locked away and sealed in the back of her mind forever.

If the other woman noticed the slip up she didn't say anything. Just kept the small, wry smile on her lips, narrowing her eyes slightly.

"If by that you mean he's a workaholic, then yes, very _committed_ indeed." She cocked her head just a little to the side, considering Buffy in a way that made her want to duck and hide under the nearest set of cubicles. "I'm glad you're here to keep him in line, a fresh faced young thing like you. Maybe you can get him to lighten up a little bit."

She was doing that thing again. The words seemingly patronizing, but the tone of voice completely earnest. It was throwing Buffy for such a major loop that she literally couldn't think of anything to say.

"Cecily." Spike's voice sliced through the tension between them like a knife, making Buffy jump and Cecily take an automatic step backward. The two women blinked at each other before the brunette turned and glanced over her shoulder toward the bleached blonde now standing just outside the conference room door. Arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised high, somehow managing to look casual even though his eyes were blazing. "Can I have a quick word before you go?"

"Of course, darling," she trilled at him, then turned back around to flash one more, pink lipped, brilliant smile in Buffy's direction. "Well, I'm sure I'll be seeing you again before your time here at Pratt is over." She paused meaningfully, her eyes darting over Buffy's face one final time before locking hazel green gazes once more. "It really was very nice to meet you."

She was gone then, turning her back and striding purposefully over toward the glassed in conference room and the bleached blonde who's gleaming azure eyes were locked on Buffy's face. Brow furrowed, obviously concerned about whatever had just transpired. She just shook her head and turned on her own heel, marching back in the direction she'd just come from. Deciding in that moment just to take the long way back to her desk.

"Hey, what took you so long?" Cordelia asked, frowning as Buffy came around the corner and tossed her stack of papers down on the desk top, her eyes locked to the back of Cecily's head. Trying to read the body language of both her and Spike, trying to tell what they were saying to each other.

Neither of them were looking in her direction now. Cecily had her hand outstretched, resting her fingertips casually against Spike's hip. He wasn't reciprocating, but again, it didn't seem to matter to the little green eyed monster perched on Buffy's shoulder now.

Cordelia cleared her throat expectantly. When Buffy still didn't look down at her, she shot her foot out and tapped her hard on the back of the calf with the pointed toe of her stiletto.

"Ow," Buffy mumbled, turning to glance down at her boss, frowning.

"Are you okay?" Cordelia pressed, raising a perfectly sculpted brow. "Your face is weird."

"Yeah," Buffy said automatically. Then thought about it, tore her gaze away from the couple by the conference room and shook her head. "Actually, no. I'm not feeling very well. I'm all flu-y, with the headache and the chills and the flashes." A beat. "Hot ones."

Cordelia made a face at her like that sounded less than pleasant, then nodded. "Then you should get out of here. I'll cover for you." She waved a hand in her general direction and turned back to her computer, bright red nails tapping along the keyboard. "Go home, get some rest."

"Thanks," Buffy said quickly, wanting just about nothing more than to get out of the office. She bent down to pick up her bag off the floor, slung it over her shoulder. She turned to go, prepared to take the long way back around to the elevator bank. But then she paused as a new thought occurred to her. She stopped and turned back around. "Hey, Cordy?"

"Yeah?" the brunette asked, not taking her eyes off the computer screen in front of her.

"Umm, has Mrs. Pratt ever…sought you out?" She bit down on the inside of her cheek anxiously, wondering if she was being silly. If she was just paranoid and overreacting because she hadn't known how to act around Cecily. "Like, to thank you for all your hard work? Or asked you anything about why you wanted to work for Pratt?"

 _Or mentioned being glad that you're here to keep her husband in line?_

"Are you kidding?" Cordelia laughed, sounding shocked that she'd even asked the question, shifting her eyes away from her keyboard and up to Buffy's one more time. "She's never even said hi to me."

For the third time that morning, Buffy's stomach flipped over and felt like it sank down to her knees. There was only one thought running through her head as she made her way back around the office. Only one indefinite but somehow certain fact that she could focus on as she got into the elevator and pressed the lobby button, watching numbly as the doors shut and finally blocked out her view of Mr. and Mrs. Pratt.

 _She knows._

 ** _-Tuesday, July 16th. 6:47pm.-_**

"She doesn't know, pet," Spike said breezily, his twinkly eyes bright, his face relieved. Like of any of the possibly things his wife might have said to Buffy that morning, what she'd actually said had been next to nothing on the to-be-worried-about-meter. His lips curving up, like he sort of wanted to laugh at her for being worried in the first place.

"How do you know that?" she asked, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, tugging them more firmly into her chest. Trying to ignore how instantly comforted she felt to hear him dismiss her concerns so readily. "You weren't there. You didn't see—"

"Buffy, luv," Spike cut her off gently, lowering his voice just a little and leaning closer to her. He shook his head once and said, "Trust me, she doesn't know a bloody thing."

Buffy wanted to believe that. This was what she'd wanted, for him to tell her that everything had been in her head.

Still, she pressed the issue.

"But she sought me out, Spike. Specifically." She paused and thought about it again, frowning down at her lap and shifting uncomfortably. "Like a doe-eyed Buffy seeking missile."

"I didn't say she didn't _suspect_ a bloody thing, luv," Spike corrected her, shifting a little closer still. "Just that she doesn't know. Not for sure." He tilted his head to the side and studied her face, thinking about that. "Fact that she sought you out means she's got no proof."

Buffy frowned, having previously been thinking pretty much the exact opposite. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, she sought you out and started chattin' you up, yeah? Askin' you questions that felt a little…off?" He paused meaningfully for confirmation from her, ducking his head a little to catch her eyes. Buffy nodded. "She was tryin' to get you to incriminate yourself, I'd wager." Spike raised his eyebrows and inclined his head to add the afterthought, "Or me. No wonder she was so brassed off when I called her over to talk to me." He chuckled then, looking like the idea pleased him tremendously.

Buffy on the other hand was having a real hard time finding the funny in the situation. In the fact that she'd spent the entire afternoon curled up on her sofa, beating herself up, wondering if she'd just cost Spike and his father their entire life's work with one or two thoughtless comments. And despite his assurances otherwise, she still couldn't shake the fantastically wiggy feeling that she _had_. If not completely given herself away, she'd at the _very_ least accidentally reacted to statements she probably shouldn't have reacted to. Statements like the comment about Spike loving the company, things that either blatantly or not so blatantly referenced other things she knew she shouldn't have known anything about.

She'd explained all of that in detail to Spike, of course. Had told him the entire story, start to finish. Every little shift in body language, the weird flash she'd seen in his wife's eyes. Even down to the details of how she'd spoken to Buffy, how the tone of her voice had never quite seemed to match what had felt implicated in her words. How Buffy'd thought maybe she'd imagined the whole thing.

On one hand, his theory about why Cecily had sought her out made her feel better. Or if not _better_ exactly than at least a little less crazy. On the other, it made her feel about a million times worse.

And Spike was somehow still chuckling to himself.

Frowning, frustrated, Buffy shifted on the sofa, letting her feet slide down to prod him hard in the side of his thigh. That only seemed to amuse him more, so she nudged him again and said, "This isn't funny, Spike."

"It's a little funny," he argued, grabbing her around the ankles and lifting her feet up, shifting to the side so that the lower half of her legs were now resting fully in his lap. He pinned them down with his arms and grinned at her, adding, "And sweet."

"What's sweet?" she asked, enjoying the gentle pressure of his arms over the tops of her legs more than she felt like she should.

The grin shifted to more of a soft smirk, and he said, "You. Bein' all worried and protective over me. " His eyes practically sparkled, they were so bright. Too blue, laugh lines crinkling around them, dimples showing. He was enjoying this way too much. "It's bloody adorable."

"Yeah?" Buffy challenged, raising her eyebrows skeptically and doing her best to ignore exactly how having him look at her that way was making her feel. "How adorable is it gonna be when my big protective mouth ends up costing you Pratt?"

Spike's smile fell just a little hearing her say that, the lines around his eyes softening as they searched hers. "That what got you put out of sorts today then?" he asked quietly, his hands coming to rest over her knees.

Even through the layer of the blanket between them, it was distracting.

"It wasn't the only thing," Buffy told him truthfully, dropping her eyes down to her lap, to her hands that were still plucking distractedly at the blanket. Like they didn't know what else to do with themselves.

Spike frowned at her, clearly surprised by the answer. "What else is botherin' you?"

And Buffy wasn't sure she really wanted to tell him the next part. But in the interest of being honest, in the interest of all the bajillion different confessions he'd finally made to her over the course of the last forty-eight hours, she knew she should. There was a part of her that wanted to tell him just so she could work through it out loud instead of keeping it locked inside her head. She just wasn't exactly sure how he'd take it. If he'd somehow feel betrayed, or think she was being silly. Naïve. He'd called her that before.

But the only way she was ever going to find out was to just…say it. So she did.

"I don't hate her," she answered him quietly, keeping her eyes down. She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and chewed it, letting those words settle before daring to speak again. "I kind of thought I would. Or maybe I just thought I _should_ , I don't know."

It was silent for a long time. Much longer than Buffy would have liked, and long enough that she couldn't bring herself to look up and meet his eyes. To see the disappointment she was so sure she'd find. That awful look of betrayal that she recognized so deeply now she never wanted to be the cause of.

But when Spike finally broke the silence, his voice didn't hold any trace of the disdain or condescension she'd been expecting. If anything, it was too soft. Too gentle and sincere, and if she was hearing it right, maybe even a little awed when he simply said, "You don't have to hate her, Buffy."

"I feel like I do," she said, keeping her voice low and her eyes down. Outside, the wind had picked up again, smattering the windows at her back in raindrops as she tried to explain what she was thinking. "I feel like I either have to hate her, or I have to live with the fact that I'm this..." she trailed off and shook her head, letting her eyes fall shut as she whispered, "I'm not _equipped_ for this."

"Not equipped for what, pet?" Spike pressed.

"God, for _this_ ," Buffy said emphatically, opening her eyes and risking a glance at his face. His eyes were wide, surprised by the intensity of her response. "For feeling like I have to hate her. For letting what she said get to me. For how I felt seeing you..."

She let that thought trail off as she became aware of what she'd been about to admit, clamping her lips closed again and leaving the last two words hanging in the air between them. _With her._ It was what she'd been about to say. Not that _not_ saying it somehow made it less obvious. Not that it probably wasn't something she'd already made all too clear to the man in front of her.

Not that said man hadn't already gone ahead and put two and two together.

A fact he easily proved a moment later when he asked, "Were you jealous?"

Why her first instinct was to lie, she wasn't sure. Why the words _I wasn't jealous_ were the first words to float to her lips, why denial always seemed so much safer than admitting the truth, she didn't know. What she did know was that it was the look on his face that had her biting back that immediate impulse this time. The way his eyes were glued to hers, the spark she was seeing there a tiny glimmer of thinly veiled delight at the idea that she might have been.

It was that spark that had her leaning her shoulder into the side of the sofa and saying softly, "I don't have any right to be jealous."

"You have every right to be jealous, luv," Spike told her, not missing a beat. His hands exerted a little extra pressure on her knees for emphasis. "Just don't have any _reason_ to be."

"Don't you hear how screwed up that is?" Buffy shifted into an upright position, sitting up straight and leaning toward him, torn somewhere again between being thrilled by his words and a little outraged, too. "I was jealous of her today, Spike. I was jealous of your _wife_ for getting to be with you like that in public. The way wives are _supposed_ to be with their husbands in public." She gestured toward him, fighting the sudden but very real urge slide her palm over his cheek. "And you're just sitting there telling me that...that's _okay_?"

"It _is_ okay," he insisted flatly, snatching her hand out of the air and bringing it back to his lap, narrowing his eyes. Like he was confused by her confusion. "You weren't jealous of my wife today, Buffy. You were jealous of something that doesn't exist. Of a _performance_. She's my wife in name only—"

"But she's still your wife," Buffy countered defiantly, eyes blazing, her hand now trapped inside his. Then she quieted, dropped her voice down to a low murmur and said the one sentence she'd been trying hardest to avoid. "Which made me the other woman today."

She had to look away from him again. Focused her eyes down on their entwined hands instead. It was the most intimate they'd been with each other since the 4th of July. Physically speaking, anyway. There'd been casual touches here and there, sure. A hand at the small of her back or fingers brushing as they'd traded papers over the desk. There'd even been that frenzied, aggressive kiss Saturday night at Spike's condo. But this…this tiny, subtle thing, felt completely and totally different. Truly intimate. Private.

Personal.

"You aren't the other woman, Buffy," Spike told her ardently, shifting her hand in his, letting their fingers weave effortlessly together. "You have to know you aren't."

She blinked a few times, letting those words really sink in. Letting the weight of them settle over her shoulders, wrapping around her frayed nerves in as real a way as the throw blanket was draped over her legs. Watching his fingers tighten their grip on her hand, feeling the pressure of his palm pressed to hers. Then she inhaled deeply through her nose, exhaled through her lips and forced herself to look up one more time.

She found Spike gazing at her with a tender sort of affection that threatened for a moment to steal the air from her lungs, all the words from her lips. Far from the disillusionment she'd been expecting, the only thing she could see in his expression was warmth.

And it was that warmth that gutted her even more, made every single lusty, covetous or _wrong_ reaction she'd ever had to him seem that much worse. Not because of him, but because of her. Because up until this very moment she hadn't been exactly sure herself how much she'd wanted him to look at her the way he was now. She'd told him the other day that her objections to his advances were about so much more than just her fear of being the other woman, and she'd been telling the truth. They were. They were about so much more.

But when he looked at her like that, the way he was now, it had a funny and instantaneous sort of mind numbing effect, wiping her brain of any and every possible objection and all logical thought and leaving her aching to just say to hell with it and crush her lips to his.

Which had been the _exact_ reason she'd been avoiding him all afternoon in the first place. Jealousy, specifically irrational jealousy, did freaky things to her Buffy brain.

Deciding that grabbing his face and shoving her tongue into his mouth probably wouldn't be the best choice to make, she simply cleared her throat and changed the subject. "So you really don't think she knows anything?"

Spike sighed and nodded, the tension from the moment broken just slightly by her shift in subject. But Buffy noticed that he didn't let go of her hand.

"Believe me, luv. If she knew we'd both know it by now," he said, arching a brow. "Be in a world of bloody hurt, I can tell you."

She arched her own brow, deadpanning, "Which brings us circling all the way back around and coming to a screeching halt in front of the _you shouldn't be here_ argument."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell, you're paranoid."

"Or maybe _you're_ not paranoid enough," she asserted, pulling her hand out of his and jabbing him in the chest with her index finger for emphasis.

"Buffy, please," he said, the words leaving his lips on a half laugh, half sigh. Looking like he wanted to roll his eyes again, gently batting her hand away. "Let it go, will you? Even if Cecily thought she knew somethin' she'd still be wrong. We're not—" he began, then cut himself off. Cleared his throat and glanced away from her, down toward the coffee table. "There's nothing to know."

Buffy's stomach did a weird twisty thing and she stared at the side of his face, drinking in his profile. Then frowned. After all of that…him showing up unannounced, and the rain, and the changing out of his shirt. The argument over her jealousy and putting her legs in his lap and the accidentally on purpose hand holding. That was it? _That_ was all he had to say?

 _There's nothing to know._

"There isn't?" she hedged quietly, trying and failing to hide the obvious disappointment in her voice.

Spike's eyes found hers again immediately, a flicker of a fresh spark in them. Darkening just slightly when he asked silkily, "Is there?"

Buffy swallowed.

 _Oh, boy._

She shouldn't have asked. Shouldn't have said anything at all. Just let that comment he'd made lie there, untouched, gathering dust in the far corner of some distant room that no one ever set foot inside. Instead she'd picked it up, gave it a polish and presented it to Spike on a silver platter.

"I-I mean…there's what we _did_ ," she clarified quickly, her eyes moving rapid fire back and forth. Searching his darkening gaze, feeling stuck. A deer in headlights. "Before."

"Right," Spike said slowly, tilting his head to the side. His lashes swept down and he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth. "What we did."

Buffy nodded. "Past tense."

"Yeah," he agreed, his eyes raking across her lips before slowly shifting back up to meet her gaze again. He still had one hand on her leg, but the other was braced on the edge of the sofa nearest her hip. Boxing her in.

"As in what we're _not_ doing now," she managed to get out, but not making a move to shift away from him as he continued to inch even closer.

"Mmm," Spike purred and nodded, his voice rumbling and low. "Definitely not."

They were nearly nose to nose now, his lips close to hers. So close that she could smell the intoxicating scent of his skin, the smoke and mint mixed with the smell of hot pavement in the rain, and just a hint of cologne that she still couldn't quite place but that managed to have a Pavlovian effect on her anyway.

And he was looking at her. _God_ , he was looking at her in that totally unfair way. The one that had her brain going all wonky and forgetting everything she knew she was supposed to remember.

All of that, all of the intense Spikeness there in front of her, combined with the leftover envy she'd been struggling to shove down all morning, and even on into the afternoon as she'd sat stewing on the sofa by herself…she was about to do something stupid.

She just knew it.

"You should go," Buffy whispered, her voice high and breathy. Not even the tiniest, eensiest bit convincing. She was saying he should go, but everything about her body language was asking him to stay.

Mixed signals seemed to sort of be the order of the day.

"I really should," Spike agreed, but not like he actually agreed. He stopped his approach just shy of rubbing the tip of his nose against hers, pausing purposefully to look into her face. The seductive look in his eyes softened, the wry quirk of his lips falling a little until all Buffy could see looking at him was that gut wrenching warmth she'd seen earlier. And he paused like that, stayed perfectly still and didn't make even a tiny shift closer.

He was giving her the final say.

"Spike," she said his name softly, shaking her head. Her brow furrowed as she considered him. "This is _really_ complicated."

As soon as she said the words she wanted to roll her eyes. Jeez. _Real insightful, Buff._ As if that hadn't been the most understated of understatements.

Spike didn't seem to think it was as lame as she did.

"It is," he agreed simply, giving a small nod of his head.

"A-and we have a lot more we have to talk about," Buffy continued, never taking her eyes off his face. Wanting to see every emotion pass over it in this moment.

Spike frowned, his expression growing stoic as he was forced to agree somberly once more. "We do."

The two stared at each other for a long moment. The only sounds in the apartment were of their quiet breathing, the distant whir of the wind outside and of the rain still stinging against the closed windows along the back wall.

It was a rare thing when Buffy could catch Spike off guard. She wasn't sure she'd ever really surprised him as much or as often as he had her. So she was insanely pleased with herself when he nearly jumped as Buffy reached up to cup his cheek and close the tiny space between them. And when she kissed him, she did it gently. Meaningfully. Soft and slow, her lips slightly parted as she breathed him in. Brushed her tongue gently past the seam of his lips and tasted him more deeply. It didn't last overly long. Ten seconds, maybe a little longer, though not by much.

But when she released him and sat back into the sofa's cushion, the look she saw in his eyes could have leveled mountains.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, leaning down toward the coffee table to pick up her cell phone. Fighting to keep the goofy smile from curling her lips at the semi-shocked look on his face as she lifted it into her lap and started to dial the first number she'd memorized after moving to Boston. "I'm starving."

He made a short little sound, a mix between a laugh and something a little more awed. But when Buffy raised her eyebrows and smirked at him, he simply nodded, never taking his eyes away from her face.

She nodded back and finished dialing, lifted her phone up to her ear. It rang once, and she remembered she should probably have checked before hand, cupping her hand over the receiver and asking, "Pizza okay?"

Spike leaned his shoulder into the back of her sofa, draping one arm casually across the tops of Buffy's legs, and saying, "Bloody perfect."


	14. Chapter 14

**_-Wednesday, July 17th. 6:30am-_**

When the alarm on Buffy's phone went off, it was more jarring than usual. Whether because she'd gotten so little sleep the night before or because her phone had somehow found itself wedged up directly below her ear underneath her pillow, she wasn't sure. Grabbing a hold of it and yanking it out from under the pillow, she glared blearily down at it, swiping the pad of her finger over to snooze it.

Then she dropped back down onto her pillow with a huff.

The arm draped lazily around her waist tightened a little, tugging her just slightly forward and Buffy glanced away from her phone and up into the swirling, bright blue gaze waiting for her.

"Good morning," she said softly, smiling a little at him as bits and pieces from the night before started to filter their way into her memory.

"Morning," Spike said back, his voice matching hers.

It was a little unsettling, waking up like this. With him. More specifically, waking up with him and not immediately feeling the need to jump up out bed and run for the nearest exit or bury her head in deep, dark shame. Not that waking up with Spike in her bed still wasn't a tiny bit weird. Because it totally was.

Weird, but not unpleasant.

"How long have you been up?" she asked, glancing once more at her phone when her snoozed alarm went off again, hurrying to put a stop to the shrill noise.

This time, she turned the alarm off entirely.

"About forty, forty-five minutes. Give or take." His little smirk widened, his fingers drumming a little rhythm against her back as he said, "You talk in your sleep."

"I know," Buffy admitted sheepishly. She was notorious for talking in her sleep. That's how Dawn had dissevered where she hid her diary when they were growing up, and also how Angel had discovered her deep and abiding fear of marriage.

Buffy could only hope she hadn't said anything nearly so revealing last night.

She'd done more than enough _revealing_ while they'd been awake.

 ** _-Tuesday, July 16th. 9:09pm-_**

They were sitting on the floor, side by side, their backs resting against the bottom of her couch. The pizza box was laying open in front of them, her coffee table having been pushed forward to give them room to stretch their legs out. There was some generic, syndicated sitcom playing on the TV, the volume down low.

Spike had insisted on wanting to pay for the pizza, and Buffy had insisted she didn't want him to pay for it. They'd argued over it for a good five minutes before he finally relented, citing it was essentially like he was paying regardless since he was _essentially_ responsible for her having a job. She'd rolled her eyes and proceeded to turn on the TV to try and find something for them to watch while they waited for the pizza to arrive, both of them being just a little on the talked-out side. Of course, the hunt for suitable TV programming had only started them down an entire different road of playful arguing, somehow ending with an equally playful wrestling match over the remote control that had seen Buffy winding up pinned beneath Spike on the ground.

He'd been seconds away from kissing her, she knew. Really kissing her. And she'd been seconds away from letting him.

So she'd been equal parts relieved and annoyed when there'd been a knock on the apartment door a second later.

Ironically, Spike had ended up paying for the pizza anyway since Buffy was short on cash.

 _"_ _Tell that wanker of a boss to pay you better,"_ he'd teased her as she'd thanked the delivery guy and shut the door, throwing the deadbolt back in place and approaching him with the heavenly smelling box. _"_ _Can't even afford take away pizza. 'S a travesty."_

 _"_ _I'll let him know how grossly underpaid I am tomorrow,"_ she teased back, settling down beside him on the floor, legs criss crossed beneath her, setting the box down in front of them.

And definitively separating themselves and their current situation from work.

They'd eaten in comfortable silence for a little while, teasing each other good naturedly every once in awhile about this, that or the other. Buffy had raided the fridge and found a small stash of Faith's favorite beer, which they were sipping on. The whole thing felt incredibly casual.

She was a little surprised with how easy things between them seemed. She didn't think she'd ever seen Spike look so…relaxed. Leaning back against her couch, legs out in front of him, chuckling off handedly every couple minutes at some silly joke from the sitcom.

He picked the pepperonis off his pizza and ate them separately, which Buffy found totally adorable, though she couldn't pinpoint why.

"So…what did you say to her anyway?" Buffy asked after she realized how full she was, tossing the uneaten slice she'd had in her hand back onto the plate and dusting her hands off.

Spike glanced toward her, his own slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. "Who?"

She paused for just a moment, wondering if she should risk bringing it up again. Or if she should just let it go for tonight, bring it up another time when they weren't…well, when they weren't having so much fun.

In the end, curiosity won out.

"Cecily," she said softly, reaching up to grab a throw pillow down off the couch and tucking it into her lap.

"When?" he asked, dropping the crust of his pizza back onto his plate.

Buffy chanced a glance toward his face again. He was frowning, looking genuinely bemused by her question.

 _When you rescued me._

"When you called her over to talk to you," she clarified, tracing lines over the striped pillow in her lap with the tip of a baby pink fingernail.

"Oh." Spike leaned forward and set his plate down on top of the coffee table. "Nothin' important."

And _that_ was a deflection if she'd ever heard one.

"It looked kind of tense."

He chuckled wryly at that, nodded his head and leaned further back against the couch. "Every conversation we have is tense, pet. Just wrap it up in fake smiles and pretentious banter when we're in public."

That's sort of what she'd figured, but it didn't make her feel any less wigged over it hearing him admit that that's all it was.

"I don't get that," Buffy told him honestly, squeezing the pillow tighter into her stomach. "I mean…I get the part about why you don't want to divorce her. And I can kind of even understand why she won't divorce you, I guess. But why does it matter what other people see?" She shifted her eyes toward his, conscious of the vulnerability she was allowing him to see when she shrugged awkwardly and said, "Lots of people have unhappy marriages and they don't all feel the need to give Oscar worthy performances when they're out in public."

Spike's lips curved upward and his eyes sparked, delighted. "You really _were_ jealous, weren't you?"

Buffy frowned at him and shook her head. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" Spike asked casually, still twinkling at her, folding his hands together and resting them in his lap.

"Get all avoidy," Buffy told him pointedly, raising her eyebrows. "It's totally obvious. And it only makes me more curious, anyway." She shifted around a little, twisting so that her shoulder was resting against the couch and not her back. "Is it really that important that the employees at Pratt think you're happily married?"

"No, I s'pose not," he conceded, picking his beer up, taking a long sip and setting it back down again. He tapped his finger against it a couple times, then added, "But it makes things…easier. Simpler."

But that wasn't true. She could see it written all over his face, that he didn't really believe that. Like he was simply repeating a lie he'd been telling himself for so long that whatever the truth was had been buried down deep.

But Buffy had a feeling she knew what the truth was. Had seen hints of it in his office that morning, had wondered about it then, too. And she knew now. That it wasn't Pratt's employees he was worried about putting on a show for. It was something much closer to home, much more personal.

And not easy or simple at all.

Quietly, keeping her eyes glued to his, she asked, "It's your dad, isn't it?"

"What?" Spike asked immediately, the reaction instant and jumpy, his eyes widening as he stared over at her.

"Your dad," Buffy repeated cautiously, keeping her voice low. "He doesn't know, does he? About…your marriage. About _why_ you got married in the first place."

The words seemed to hang between them for a long time. For a few minutes the only sounds in her tiny apartment were the sound of hard rain against the windows, distant, rumbling thunder and the quiet laugh track from the television.

Then finally, Spike sighed, glanced away from her and answered. "No. He doesn't."

She already knew that. She'd been gearing up for him to admit it since asking a few minutes ago.

So why it still managed to make her stomach tighten and flip over, she wasn't sure.

"Spike," she whispered, her voice quiet and choked to her own ears as her eyes scanned the side of his face. "How can you keep something like this from him?"

"What good do you think it would do anyone to tell him, Buffy?" He asked her, his own voice low, matching hers. Maybe a little harder.

But he wasn't avoiding the topic, so that was definitely something.

Buffy found herself shifting a little closer to him in the dim lamp light, tilting her head to the side and saying purposefully, "Well, for one you wouldn't have to be all lovey dovey with Cecily in front of him anymore."

Which was the current and most pressing consequence in her mind, thanks in large part to the half a beer she'd already consumed.

Obviously, the same wasn't true for Spike.

"And how do you think all this would make my father feel?" he pressed her, eyes wide and eyebrows raised in challenge. His voice taking on a slight sarcastic quality as he asked, "Warm and fuzzy, knowing the fate of his legacy is in the hands of a woman who's one and only desire in life is to see me miserable?"

It seemed like a teeny tiny bit of an exaggeration to her, logically speaking. After all, if all Cecily wanted was to see Spike miserable, and she could accomplish at least a little of that just by telling Henry about his son's deception…then why wouldn't she just do that? Unless…well, unless Cecily herself genuinely cared about Henry, too. Which was entirely possible.

And kind of made her head hurt.

Buffy shrunk back just a little from Spike, deciding to keep her thoughts about Cecily to herself, feeling like she'd just been scolded. Grip on her throw pillow tightening again, she asked, "You think he'd be mad?"

She watched Spike soften a little as he looked at her. Inhaling deeply through his nose, then letting the air out again through pursed lips. He picked up his beer again and glanced down to the floor, bending his knees to prop his forearms over them. "Worse than that, pet."

Buffy frowned at him, not understanding what could be worse. When it became clear to her that he wasn't going to offer the explanation without being prompted, she shifted closer still and asked, "What do you mean?"

Spike was quiet for another extended moment after that. When he finally looked back over toward her, the expression on his face was soft, almost resigned. Like he'd had this conversation about a million other times and was settling in for the long, entirely expected, haul.

"It'd break his heart, Buffy," he told her plainly, his eyes never leaving hers as he explained. "He didn't give us the money for mum because he expected anythin' in return. He didn't even want us to know Pratt was strugglin' at the time. If he knew what I'd done…" he trailed off and looked away again, eyes focused somewhere between his bent knees. He shook his head. "If he knew what things were like with Cecily…"

"You think he'd tell you to leave her?" Buffy hedged quietly, cautiously, afraid to raise her voice much louder than an exaggerated whisper.

To which Spike laughed, catching her completely off guard.

"I know he would," he said, a small, pained smile curving the corner of his mouth as his eyes found and held hers. "Tell me to let the whole thing burn to the ground if I had to. That nothing is worth bein' this bloody miserable over, that livin' like this wouldn't be what my mum would have wanted."

The quiet pain in his voice threatened to steal the air from her lungs, overshadowed just a little bit with a bitterness Buffy seemed to vaguely recognize. Something she thought she might have felt herself, a long time ago.

"You say all of that like those are bad things," she managed to murmur, a little relieved when he shook his head and glance down to the floor again.

He sighed again and murmured, "They're bloody brilliant things."

She frowned at him, getting the distinct feeling that she was missing something here.

"And yet…" she prompted, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

"You have any idea how many times I've come this bloody close to tellin' him? Least once a year." Spike shook his head again, tilted his chin back until the back of his head was resting on the edge of the couch cushion. "Every time I put it off it just gets harder."

"But…why put it off? He could help you," she told him softly, eyes running over his face, brow furrowed. Still not understanding why he'd keep something this massive away from the one person who had the power to give him peace over it. "At the very least he could maybe give you some advice on how to deal with things."

Spike looked at her again then, azure eyes as soft as his voice, and murmured, "He'd be so disappointed in me, Buffy."

And Buffy didn't know what to say to that.

She'd only met Henry Pratt once, and that had only been what…twelve hours ago? She didn't actually know all that much about him in practicality. Sure, she knew he was the type of man to give everything he could for his family. Knew he was the type to self-sacrifice, something he'd obviously passed on to his son. She knew he had a sharp wit and kind eyes, and that he obviously trusted Spike with his livelihood.

But she didn't know him well enough to say whether or not something like this would disappoint him.

So she looked Spike steadily in the eye and said the one thing she was fairly confident in. "He loves you."

"I love him," he said honestly in response, his voice suddenly lightening as he chuckled, took one more swig of his beer and set it down. "Funny, innit, how we see our parents when we're younger compared to how we see 'em now?" He turned his face forward again, something distant passing in his eyes. "When my parents first split I was so sodding mad at him. Couldn't understand how he could just pick up and leave us. People he claimed to love, you know? I didn't…was too young to understand, and I hated him for a long time because of that."

And if all of that didn't ring just a huge freaking gong with Buffy, she didn't know what would. They were words she knew well. Had spoken herself, had heard her sister say. Spike could have been describing her own childhood to her now, it felt so familiar. Even the look on his face, the thinly veiled anger and mild disgust that she caught flickering over his features felt too real to her.

But then a shift happened, one that had never happened for her. She watched as something different, something softer crossed his face. His eyes shifted and found hers once more. "He'd tried callin' me through the years. Sent me letters, birthday cards. Dru and me, both. She'd eventually forgiven him and the two of 'em kept in touch but me…I was too proud. Too angry. I was a sensitive kid and could never get past feelin' so…abandoned, I guess." He stopped and paused then, taking the time to take a deep breath in. Buffy breathed in, too.

She hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath.

"The day I called him about mum was the first time I'd spoken to him in ten years. And he was so fuckin' happy to hear from me, Buffy." His voice got a little choked then and he had to pause, covering it with a short, harsh laugh. Shaking his head, rolling his eyes up toward the ceiling, he said, "I was callin' to ask the man for his money and all he wanted to know in return was whether or not I'd ended up studyin' History or English at university. If I had a girlfriend, if I was still playin' football. What my favorite _bloody_ color was."

His voice broke then, and he wasn't able to catch it in time. Wasn't prepared for it in time to hide it from her. Buffy swallowed hard as she gazed at him, felt her own eyes starting to sting and burn a little, wondering at how he could bare himself so easily to her. It was something she didn't understand. Without hardly any prompting at all, he was willing to be this open and vulnerable in front of her.

Not that she hadn't seen him be vulnerable before, because she had. In some brief moments with her when they'd first met. Telling her about his mom that day in his office. The words he'd whispered into her skin the last night she'd spent in his bed. The tenderness he'd shown his sister, what he'd been willing to risk for his dad.

But this was different. More raw, or more immediate, or more…something. She wasn't even sure. Maybe it just felt more intimate because they were in her apartment and not his. Or it might have been the fact that he was obviously trying really hard to keep it all together. That he was so obviously torn, heaping punishment after punishment on himself for some self-perceived sin that she wasn't even entirely sure he'd committed.

"Spike," she said softly, an unfamiliar and not entirely unwelcome urge rising up in her chest. A desire to pull this man into her arms and hold him there until she'd fixed things.

But he just continued talking like he hadn't even heard her, lost in his own thoughts, maybe. "I'd spent so many years hatin' him for abandoning us that I never stopped to realize I'd sort of abandoned him in return. I've spent my entire adult life tryin' to make it up to him. Tryin' to make him proud." One last time, in the golden yellow glow of the table lamps, Spike turned to her. "Guess I'm just afraid learnin' about all this would ruin whatever illusion I've built up."

She reached for him then. Didn't think much about it before hand, just did it. Grabbed a hold of the hand nearest to her and wrapped her fingers around it, squeezing once. Lowering her voice and leaning toward him, she said meaningfully, "You did this to help him, Spike."

"That somehow makes it excusable, does it?" he bit out, a hard, sharp edge creeping back into his voice as he narrowed his eyes at her.

"No," she answered simply, honestly. What he'd done, what he was doing…it wasn't _right_. But he wasn't the only one not doing the right thing here, and she was most definitely the pot in their scenario of black cookware. Not only that, but he hadn't done what he'd done to be malicious to begin with. All of that and more was what she was thinking when she told him, "But intention matters."

He seemed to actually consider that for a second. The lines around his eyes softened, the hard line of his lips relaxed. And when he asked, he asked seriously. Like he really wanted to know what she thought and not just as some token or consolation to her for listening to him talk.

"You think I should tell him?" His eyes never left hers.

Without a single pause Buffy nodded. "I think you'd feel a lot better if you did."

Spike chuckled at that, softening even more around the edges one more time. He was gentling toward her, but already in the process of walling himself off again at the same time. She could see it happening, could hear it in his voice when he smirked wryly at her and said, "You sound like Drusilla."

"Your sister's a smart woman," Buffy responded, mirroring his casual tone of voice with her own, smiling back at him when he suddenly squeezed her hand.

"S'pose that means you are, too." He picked her hand up, shifting the back of his up underneath her palm and bringing it up to press a teasingly light kiss over her knuckles.

The moment was so easy, so casual and second nature and plainly _affectionate_ that it actually took her a moment to realize what he'd done.

It was over before she could say anything about it, though.

Spike was already sighing and lowering her hand again. "I know what he'd say if I told him now. Know what he'd do. I just don't want all these sacrifices to have been for nothin', luv." His eyes flashed as they searched hers and he said purposefully, "His or mine."

"Well, you and Cecily own Pratt Publishing." Buffy shrugged, trying to make her voice light and casual and not at all like she was secretly hoping he might do just what he thought his father would suggest as she pulled her tingling hand out of his and turned to face forward again. "It's not like he can force you to leave her or to give up the business if you don't want to. You'd just be telling him the truth." Her eyes darted back to his again. "Taking a little of that Earth shaped weight off your shoulders."

"Tell you what," Spike mused after another short silence, and she could hear the smirk in his voice now and knew that the moment before, whatever it had meant, was over. "I'll think about it. In the meantime, though, I have a very important question to ask you."

Her ears perked at that.

Buffy frowned and turned away from the TV screen to face him again, a little surprised to see that he'd bridged the small gap between them and was now very, very close to her. She blinked a few times, swallowed, inhaled the heady scent of his skin.

Her lashes fluttered a few times and she managed to ask, "What's that?"

Spike smirked at her. "Are you…" He trailed off, let his lashes sweep down from her gaze to some indeterminate place somewhere near her collarbone, then back up again. He shifted a half inch closer to her and whispered, "…plannin' to eat that last slice of pepperoni, or is it just gonna bloody sit there and go to waste?"

Buffy shifted backward in a rush and laughed, loudly. Completely and totally disarmed by him…again. He grinned at her, winked, and immediately went to grab the slice of pizza she'd left abandoned on her plate.

Before he could grab it, though, Buffy took the pillow off her lap and smacked him in his laughing face with it.

 ** _-Tuesday, July 16th. 11:15pm-_**

It was getting on just this side of _too_ late, she knew, when the first black and white syndication flickered across her television set. But she'd been so relaxed, and they'd been having so much _fun_ , and Spike's shoulder had basically been the world's most perfect pillow, that she hadn't been ready for the breeziness of their evening to end. Even once she'd glanced at her phone and seen a missed call and text message from her roommate, realized actively how late it was getting, she hadn't said anything.

 **Faith. 7/15. 10:48pm.** _Hey, B. Not even gonna try and go out in this storm. Gonna crash on Mel's couch and head home in the morning._

Buffy hadn't said anything after reading that, either.

And now somehow they were standing in her bedroom. She wasn't even sure how that had happened.

Spike was standing just inside the doorway, arms crossed casually. His eyes moved slowly over every inch of her room, a slight smirk on his lips when his gaze finally fell to her hastily made bed, to the little pink stuffed pig resting back against the pillows. He dropped his arms and crossed to it, picking the plush toy up and eyeing it, giving it an experimental squeeze between his hands.

"Little fella have a name?" he asked her, still smirking, clearly amused, as his eyes flitted toward Buffy's again.

She eyed him carefully, her own lips curving upward as she did. He looked so…God, she didn't even know. Out of place and totally in place all at the same time? Still dressed in his work pants and the oversized sweatshirt she'd given him. His hair dry and messier than she'd ever seen it, standing in the middle of her bedroom holding her childhood stuffed animal…and still somehow looking a little bit intimidating, just the right amount of arrogant.

"How do you know it's a 'fella'?" she asked, widening her eyes and crossing her arms.

Spike quirked a knowing brow. "Pretty girls are only ever surrounded by men, pet." He twisted her little pig around so his eyes were facing her and said, "Stuffies included."

Buffy gave him an amused but sardonic look and crossed the room, plucking her toy out of Spike's hands. She squeezed it once affectionately and then told her boss in as serious a voice as she could, "Mr. Gordo."

She'd never felt so ridiculous giving the stuffed pig's name in her life.

But Spike just laughed, sounding genuinely delighted. He nodded his head, azure eyes sparkling in the light of her bedroom, and said, "Mr. Gordo." He grinned at her. "Should tell Dru that, could write a brilliant kiddie poem about him."

The idea warmed Buffy all over, flushing her cheeks with a pleasant heat that she was pretty sure didn't have anything to do with the beers she'd had.

She was going to have to buy Faith more.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, still half laughing, reaching forward to settle Mr. Gordo back down into his pillow nest.

When she turned around, Spike was slowly making his way around her room. He stopped at her dresser to peek at the framed photos of her high school and college friends, stopped at the decorative hooks that held her jewelry and reached up to finger her necklaces, made a point to stop at the three framed literary quotes that hung on the wall opposite her bed. They'd been birthday gifts from Angel, but she wasn't going to tell him that. She stared at him as he read each of them aloud, smirking at her over his shoulder when he reached the one from Hemingway.

Finally, he finished the short self-guided tour of her bedroom after stopping to peek into her en suite bathroom, teasing her over her plush pink towels and matching striped shower curtain before slowly crossing to her again.

"Not what you expected?" Buffy asked, watching him approach her slowly, unable to pull her eyes away from his.

He chuckled and shook his head. "No, actually, 's exactly what I expected."

Buffy caught herself frowning at him. _Is that a bad thing or a good thing?_

"Is that a bad thing or a good thing?"

She frowned again, brow furrowing, when the words left her lips almost without thinking. No filter, apparently. Jeez. She really was a total lightweight.

Spike, however, hadn't seemed to notice her slip up...or her question. He was bent over at the waist, looking very closely at the framed photo situated fairly prominently on Buffy's bedside table. She watched him pick it up very gently, cradling it between his hands. He brought it closer to his face as he straightened his back, looking down at it for a while, eyes moving over every detail carefully.

Then he turned toward Buffy and, pointing at the center of the photo, asked, "This your mum?"

Buffy didn't have to look to answer. He was looking at a picture of three of them, her mom, sister and herself, one they'd taken almost a year ago. The day Joyce and Dawn had dropped Buffy off for her last year of college.

"Uh, yeah," she said, glancing down at the frame and nodding. "That's mom and that's my little sister, Dawn."

Spike nodded and turned his eyes down again, studying three women in the frame. For a moment, he didn't say anything at all. Buffy didn't say anything, either.

When he looked into her face again his eyes were dazzling. "You look happy."

Unable to read the exact look in his eyes, Buffy looked down at her own face instead, the image in the photograph reflected back to her. Eyes bright and slightly crinkled around the edges, her smile even brighter. She was laughing in the picture. Dawn had just said something, she couldn't even remember now, and her mom's response had been something uniquely hilarious.

Feeling a little exposed, though not necessarily in a bad way, she responded, "I look young."

Spike scoffed at that. "You're still _young_ , pet. Twenty-two is…incredibly young. I mean, bloody hell." He tilted his head to the side, eyes twinkling a little as he lowered his voice until it was slightly suggestive. "'M old enough to be your father."

"You say that like it isn't just a little bit creepy," Buffy teased him, rolling her eyes and grabbing the picture frame out from his hands. She set it down on her nightstand, angling it back toward her bed.

"Well, you never know," he purred from beside her. "That sort of thing does it for some people."

"Don't I know it," she murmured under her breath. Then, seeing Spike's expression shift from suggestive to downright seductive, she amended quickly. " _I'm_ not one of them. But Faith calls you a silver fox."

Oh, jeez. Filter. _Definitely_ Missing.

But Spike was clearly pleased. "Does she now?"

"Yep," Buffy responded blithely, leaning her hip against the edge of her bed. Furrowing her brow in a show of deep concentration, she continued, "I haven't figured out yet if it's because of your hair or if it's just because she thinks you're old."

Spike gasped, mock offended. Then he grinned at her, folding his arms and leaning his own hip into the side of her bed, his position now mirroring hers. "Can't just be because she thinks I'm foxy?"

Playing along, Buffy widened her eyes just a little. "Gosh, I hope not." She shifted around so that she was sitting on the edge of her bed instead of leaning against it. "Then I'd have to kill her. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good roommate in this town?"

She knew exactly just how much she'd admitted in that single, seemingly flippant sentence. And for whatever reason, in the moment, with his gaze heavy on hers and that twinkle in his eye, she just couldn't seem to muster enough energy to care.

Honestly, she was a little tired of caring.

Spike shifted himself, moving so that he was standing directly in front of her. He put his hands down on either side of her hips and the tips of her knees brushed against his lower stomach as he leaned into her. "I've got a question."

Buffy tilted her head back to keep eye contact with him, smiling a little as she said, "I've got an answer."

"I'm going to kiss you now," Spike told her.

So, technically, not a question. Something she began to point out to him, getting the first two or so words out before she was cut off by his mouth covering hers.

Not that Buffy cared one way or another when Spike threaded both hands up and into her hair, cradling the crown of her head as he did exactly that. This was far from the soft, tentative kiss she'd laid on him earlier in the evening. This was…bone melty. As deep and intense as it was greedy and frenzied, he took possession of her lips and tongue with his in _just_ the way she'd wanted him to all night. Kissing her with what felt like everything he had, she was forced to reach out and clutch at his arms for support. And then things shifted around her, slowing down. Even as he continued to tease her lips and the tip of her tongue with his, the kiss grew more languid. More and more, becoming less urgent, until she was twining her fingers into his hair, twirling the platinum locks around her fingers in leisurely time to the strokes of their tongues.

When Spike eventually pulled away from her, she was breathless. So was he. And when he opened his eyes and met hers, they were glazed, pupils dilated. So were hers.

Hands still cradling her head, he brushed a thumb across her temple. "Sorry," he whispered, his lips grazing hers as he smiled against her. "I interrupted you."

Buffy just nodded against him, murmuring some indiscernible little _mmhmph_ sound and tightening her grip in his hair, tugging his lips back to hers. He moaned into her mouth like he was surprised by her aggression, giving into her barely a second later. Kissing her more deeply, more soundly than before. He used his hips to wedge her knees apart, settling himself between them.

She just breathed him in, inhaling greedily as the lightning flashed and thunder rolled. She rubbed herself shamelessly against him, relishing in the possessive growl that tore from his throat when she did. In the way his hands twisted just a little harder in her hair, pressing himself against her just as wantonly.

Then he was leaning forward, pressing her backward, kissing along her jawline and down her neck, nipping and licking and sucking at her flesh in a frenzy that was making her dizzy in the most incredible way. And just as his body pressed hers fully down into the mattress beneath them, lightning struck again. Something fizzled, sparked and shorted out and all the lights in her apartment went out at once.

Both Buffy and Spike froze, lips still locked, bodies flush together. Then, very slowly, like he was specifically trying not to spook her, he pulled back a little way so he could look down into her face. Hands still fisted in her hair, he asked, "You happen to have a torch handy?"

Buffy blinked up at him, her eyes slowly adjusting in the darkness. She frowned. "No, because we aren't living in 3,000 B.C."

"A _flash light_ , pet." She could see him roll his eyes in the darkness as he chuckled dryly at her. "D'you have one nearby?"

Flash light.

Oh.

That…would be smart.

"Umm, I think there might be one in the kitchen?" She honestly had no idea.

Spike nodded, lifted himself off of her and said, "Sit tight."

And then he was gone. Moving lithely through the darkness, the white blonde of his hair a beacon through the blackness filling the bedroom and on into the kitchen. She heard some shuffling, some open and closing of drawers and cabinets, a grumbled British-y sounding curse. And then his hair appeared through the darkness again as he moved back through the living room and into her bedroom. His face was softly illuminated now by the flickering flame of a silver lighter in his left hand, the candle from the kitchen island in his right.

"No luck?" Buffy asked him, ignoring how extremely obvious the question was even as he quirked a scarred brow in her direction, a smirk curving his lips.

"No luck," he said sardonically, stopping at the edge of her bed again, tilting the lighter's flame over the candlewick and waiting for it to ignite before setting the candle down on Buffy's bedside table. The candle was on the larger side, but it still wasn't enough to emit much light beyond about a three-foot circle, casting the rest of her bedroom in flickering shadow.

It was kind of hard for Buffy's slightly fuzzy brain to ignore just how romantic all of this was. Or could be. Or had been a few seconds ago.

Her lips were still tingling.

Spike set the lighter down and stepped towards her again, eyes down, trailing his fingertips along the edge of her mattress. "Think this little light show might be my cue to cut out, pet." His fingers reached her leg, where he walked them up onto her knee and tapped her thoughtfully. "Any idea when that roommate of yours'll be headin' this way?"

His eyes drifted up to hers, and it took Buffy just a second longer than it should have to realize what he was saying.

"Oh," she finally said, blinking at him. Trying to ignore how her immediate reaction to that was harsh and sharp disappointment. She pressed her hands down into the mattress and scooted back to the edge, preparing to get off. Feeling awkward and guilty. "You don't have to stay until she gets here. Really."

Spike frowned deeply at her, shaking his head like she'd just told him she planned to go skydiving without a parachute. "No bloody way am I leavin' you here alone in the dark, luv." His fingertips still resting against her knee, he tapped her lightly again and said, "When's Faith comin' home?"

Buffy bit down on her lip and glanced toward the ground. Speaking softly, under her breath, she said, "See, that's the thing is she's not."

Spike pulled his hand off her leg and reached up, hooking his index finger underneath her chin and raising her face to his. One eyebrow arched, he looked down at her through his lashes and repeated her slowly. "She's not."

"Yeah. She, uh, she's crashing at her co-worker's apartment, riding out the storm or…whatever." She was telling the truth, so why did it sound like she was lying? Like she had some wiggy ulterior motive going? Buffy cleared her throat, adding quickly, "She'll be home first thing in the morning though, so, I'll be—"

"I'll just sleep on the sofa, then," Spike said quickly, not missing a beat as he dropped his hand away from her chin and took a step back, eyes darting around the room.

Buffy shook her head, frowning, but the protest on her lips was only half-hearted. "Spike—"

"You have a spare blanket?" he asked, studiously ignoring her ultra lame objection, eyes falling to the plush white throw blanket decoratively draped across the bottom of her bed.

"You really don't have to stay here," she said, and again, the words just didn't quite sound convincing.

"Afraid this is non-negotiable, pet." He reached his hand out, eyes darting from her to the throw and then back again. Gesturing with his fingers, he said, "Blanket?"

She wasn't sure if she liked or hated the fact that his whole non-negotiable thing was sort of making her inner thighs clench spontaneously.

"You're not going to let this go are you?"

Spike pretended to think it over for a minute, eyes rolling up to the ceiling, then shook his head. He pursed his lips and said, "Not likely."

Making a face at him, smirking a little, she reached over and gathered the blanket into her hands. Balling it up, she tossed it at his face, watching him catch it laughingly against his chest. "Do you need a pillow?"

"I'll use the toss pillows on the sofa," he said softly, smirking back at her as he balled the blanket into his own hands and tucked it over his arm. His eyes were warm, soft, even in the shadows that flickered across his face in the candlelight.

He gazed at her for a minute, and she gazed back, both of them looking like they might have something to say but neither of them moving to say it. A moment went by in silence. Then another.

Outside the darkened windows, lightning flashed again.

Then finally, Spike sighed and said slowly, "So, uh…I'll just be out here." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and started backing up toward the door. "If you need anythin', don't…try and get it yourself, yeah? Don't want to have to call an ambulance or give you mouth to mouth or something equally as bloody disgusting." His eyes twinkled at her through the darkness as he stepped into her bedroom doorway.

Buffy narrowed her eyes at him, deadpanning, "Alright, funny guy. Off to the couch with you."

Spike lingered in her doorway, pulled his bottom lip into his mouth. Then, slowly, he said, "Right, yeah. Just one more thing." He dropped the throw blanket to the floor and crossed the room in a flash, only stopping at the edge of the bed. He took her face between his hands and kissed her soundly.

Another deep kiss, one that had her toes curling and her hands shooting out to grip him by the hips and tug him against her. After much too short a moment he pulled back a little, kissed her once more, rubbed the tip of his nose against hers and murmured, "Good night."

He was moving out of the room again before she could say anything, scooping the blanket off the floor and disappearing out into the living room without another word, leaving Buffy dazed on the edge of her bed. Satisfyingly light headed, her lips tingling, a pleasant ache starting to throb between her thighs.

She reached up and pressed the tips of her fingers to her mouth. "Good night."

 ** _-Wednesday, July 17th. 2:43am-_**

Buffy awoke a few hours later to a loud banging sound coming from the dark corner of her bedroom. She sat bolt upright in bed, blinking rapidly into the darkness and trying to see into the corner where the noise had come from. Her pulse was pounding, eyes still heavy with sleep. She could hear the storm was still raging outside, wind and rain whipping against the shuttered windows. Groggy with sleep, disoriented, she jumped when she heard another bang from the corner of the darkened bedroom. On impulse, Buffy reached over to click on her bedside lamp, only to have it click and turn over but no light to come on.

Oh.

Right. No electricity.

A moment later, she heard another things-that-go-bump-in-the-night bump, and then the creak of the bathroom door opening. Immediately she relaxed, memories from earlier in the night starting a slow, sleep fuzzed trickle into her brain as she spotted white blonde hair through the blackness. There was a muffled shuffling sound, the cautious tread of feet over carpet. One last bang, the sound of something solid colliding with something equally solid, followed immediately by a muffled, "Bloody hell."

"Spike?" Buffy said, eyeing the beacon of platinum as it came to a stop.

"Sorry, lamb," he apologized instantly, his voice sheepish. "Didn't mean to wake you."

She squinted further into the corner of the room he was standing at, reaching her hand up to rub lazily at her eyes. Wishing she could see his face through the darkness. "Is everything okay?"

"Uh, yeah. Just nipped to the loo," he explained, still sounding quiet and sheepish. Like he didn't want to raise his voice much higher. "Was hopin' to get in and out without…well, doin' this, I s'pose."

"Are you okay?" Buffy asked, still straining in the darkened bedroom to make out his face.

"Right as rain, pet," he told her gently, and there was more shuffling of feet on the carpet, moving toward her. "Go back to sleep."

There was a sudden flash of lightning, making her jump when the room suddenly illuminated fully. Just as the accompanying thunder rolled, Buffy felt Spike collide with the footboard of her bed, stopping abruptly and letting out another muffled curse.

Buffy smiled to herself, saying softly, "If you wanna throw me your lighter I can…light the candle."

"It's on your night table," he told her, and she felt the pressure of his hands on the bottom edge of her mattress as he rested against it. "Left it there in case you needed it."

That was both sweet and surprising. She hadn't even noticed.

Frowning a little Buffy leaned over, feeling for the silver lighter Spike had left on her bedside table. She found it easily, flipped it open, tried three of four times to get the flame to flicker on before lighting the candle there. Setting the lighter down, she turned back around and promptly froze.

He was standing right about where she figured he'd be, only now he was shirtless. He was still wearing his dress pants, though he'd removed his belt, which was really only serving to give her half asleep brain all kinds of twisted workplace fantasies…

It was weird.

Good weird.

And then she noticed that he had an open cut on the side of his forehead. Not a big one, barely more than a tiny scrape, but it was still dripping blood down over his temple.

She frowned. "You're bleeding."

"What?" Spike blinked at her, reaching his fingertips up to the small cut when Buffy indicated where it was. He brought his hand back down. Frowned. "Oh. Bugger."

"Did you hit your head?"

He chuckled wryly at her, nodding his head and raising his hand up to the cut again. "There's a distinct possibility."

Buffy thought about it for a minute, then sat up, tossed the covers off her legs and slide out of bed. "Come here," she said, patting the space near the side of the mattress she'd just vacated. "Sit."

Spike eyed her for a moment, lowering his hand away from his head again. When he didn't move, she raised her eyebrows at him and patted the mattress once more. Smirking a little, he stood up straight and moved around the edge of the bed until he reached her. Then she traded places with him, maneuvering into her darkened bathroom. She could see just enough from the candlelight to grab a washcloth, wetting it with one hand and opening up her medicine cabinet with the other. She pulled down the box of Band-aids, which were open and probably expired…if Band-aids expired, and looked vainly for some kind of antiseptic gel for about a minute before giving up.

It wasn't like he was gonna get Tetanus or something from anything in her apartment, anyway.

Emerging from the bathroom, she found Spike watching her intently, small smirk still in place. Eyeing him, she grabbed up his hand and dropped the wet washcloth into it, setting the past-due Band-aids on her bedside table.

"This really necessary?" he asked her coyly, folding the cloth up so he had a cut-sized corner of it wedged between his fingers.

"You're bleeding," she reminded him simply, turning around and hoisting herself back up onto the edge of her bed beside him.

"Only a little," he countered, but pressed the wet corner of the cloth up the cut on his forehead anyway.

A moment passed.

Then, Buffy's half-asleep brain decided to ask the question that'd been bugging her for an hour before she'd finally fallen asleep, thinking about the man sleeping out in her living room. "Why'd you want to sleep on the couch?"

But instead of giving her a straight answer, Spike just asked her his own question. "Did you not want me to?"

The way he always managed to flip things around so effortlessly on her was astounding. And how even his simplest of seemingly simple questions always seemed to throw her for a loop; also astounding. Had she not wanted him to go sleep on the couch? Well, no. In the moment she definitely hadn't wanted that.

But had she been ready, _wanting_ , to invite him into her bed? She wasn't sure. Story of her life lately, it seemed. Caught between the rock of thinking she might know what it was she wanted and the _very_ hard place of simultaneously knowing she _shouldn't_ want what she thought she wanted.

So when she answered him, she went with honesty. "I don't know what I want."

Spike nodded like he understood.

"Aren't we quite the pair," he said quietly, lowering the cloth from his forehead. He dropped his hands into his lap and sighed, tilting his head back, eyes on the ceiling. "Don't seem to know what I want, either."

Buffy turned to look at him, let her eyes trail over the curve of his jaw, down the column of his throat, watched his Adam's apple bob once as he swallowed. Then down, further still, across his bare chest. Over the curve of his shoulder. He had a faint hint of a scar there, a long one that led from just above his shoulder blade to around the cuff.

She had a sudden urge to lean forward and press her lips to it.

She didn't.

Instead, she decided to press a little. Nothing too out right. She was still planning to play it cool, keep it subtle. But she was also just a little bit tired of always playing things so insanely safe.

Shifting a little closer to him on the bed's edge, she inhaled through her nose and, eyes on his profile, she asked, "Don't you want a chance to be happy?"

And Spike dropped his head level again, turned it to face hers. In the dim light, his eyes appeared almost black as they very steadily met hers and he asked, "Don't you?"

She held his gaze for as long as she possibly could before she had to look away again. And when she did, her eyes landed on the photo frame just behind the candle. The photo they'd looked at earlier together.

 _"_ _You look happy."_

It was a slightly numb, creeping sort of realization. One that had snuck up on her when she hadn't been looking for it, certainly hadn't been wanting it. But it was there anyway, niggling away at the back of her mind now as she looked at the image of herself in the frame.

When was the last time she'd looked that happy. Laughed that hard. The night she'd first met Spike, at the bar? One of those innocuous days in his office during their little pre-4th of July standoff?

Tonight?

Buffy turned around and crawled across the mattress toward the far side of her bed, yanking the covers back and slipping beneath them. She situated herself, then rolled over onto her side to face Spike again.

The empty space she'd left between them on the bed spoke volumes.

It was a wordless answer to his question. A wordless invitation. One that she knew she might, and probably would, regret in the morning. Knowing that the harsh light of morning, after the rain and candlelight and the memory of his kisses had faded, would bring with it all of the reasons why this was so very _wrong_.

But as she watched him set the washcloth down on the bedside table and lean forward at the waist, pursing his lips to blow out the candle, the only thing she could think was how glad she was that he was there.

And when she felt Spike's weight settle onto the mattress in front of her, felt his fingertips brush over hers in darkness; all she really felt was better than she had in weeks.

 ** _-Wednesday, July 17th. 8:25am-_**

"Spike, stop."

"Stop what?"

"I can't," she gasped, shaking her head. "I can't anymore."

He smirked wickedly at her. "Sounds like a challenge to me."

"It's not," she breathed, falling back onto her pillow, giggling like a crazy person and trying in vain to catch her breath. "I really just can't."

Spike mock pouted at her, resting his weight on his elbow, propping his head up on his knuckles. "But that's not even the best part."

It had all started with her asking him where he got the eyebrow scar from. An innocent enough question, or so she'd figured lying across from him that morning, gazing quietly at one another.

She'd been expecting something…dark. Some harrowing story about being mugged at gun point when he was younger and still living in England, or maybe something more along the lines of a fencing accident while he was away at boarding school, or…well, she'd clearly had a skewed and bizarro view of his upbringing, because he'd laughed both of her scenarios off and asked her teasingly if she'd been watching too much "Britain according to Americans" television.

He'd then proceeded to tell her that he'd actually gotten it in when he was a young teenager in the 90s. All he'd told her was that it had been an unfortunate shaving accident, as part of an ongoing prank war he'd had going with a friend of his. Something about Vanilla Ice…a reference that had simultaneously made Buffy feel young and Spike feel old when she didn't immediately understand what that had to do with his eyebrows.

Once she'd figured it out, though, she hadn't been able to stop laughing, which had seemed to be equal parts embarrassing and pleasing to him. Ultimately it had led him to launch into all kinds of stories about the various pranks and tricks he'd played on friends and family as a little boy.

"No," Buffy warned now, wagging a finger at him even as she dissolved into another fit of giggles remembering what he'd just told her. "No more stories of your delinquent childhood."

"So…you don't want to hear bout the time I put ink in Dru's tea?" Buffy gaped at him, and he curled his tongue behind his teeth smugly. "Turned her teeth black for a month, it was bloody brilliant."

She laughed at him again, turning over onto her side, tucking her arm up beneath her head. She shook her head, saying, "Oh my God, you were an absolute terror."

"Just bein' the little sibling." He stretched his free arm up over his head, arching his back. "It was my duty, after all."

"Dawn was never that bad," Buffy argued, smiling again.

Her cheeks were starting to hurt.

Spike's eyes went wide as he looked down at her, eyebrows raising high. "I'd wager stickin' chewing gum in big sis's hair qualifies her as bein' exactly that bad."

"That was easily fixed."

"So was the tea. 'Sides that, Dru gave back as good as she got. How do you think I got so good at it?" He quirked a brow and leaned a little closer to her, murmuring, "Part and parcel of all the crazy she's got goin' on in her noggin'.

Buffy laughed with him again, which quickly turned into a groan and a grimace. She reached a hand up and rubbed absently at the right side of her face, muttering, "My cheeks feel like they're going to crack and split off my face."

"Can't have that, can we?" he asked smilingly, reaching his own hand out to knead gently at her cheek with his thumb. She relaxed under his attention, letting her eyes flutter shut as he gentle kneading turned to soft back and froth strokes. She sighed, nuzzling her face deeper into her pillow, knowing she needed to get up and out of her bed and go actually…do things.

But she wasn't exactly feeling the urgency.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd had pillow talk that wasn't…well, actual pillow talk. Or…did this count? She wasn't sure. Did it still count as the post sex, giggly, after glow-y chitchat if there hadn't been any actual sex before hand?

Spike's thumb brushed across her cheek bone again, and he asked, "What are you thinkin'?"

"I'm thinking that I need to get up and shower and get dressed," she said honestly, nuzzling deeper into his hand and the pillow in direct contradiction as she did. "I'm gonna be way late already."

Which probably wasn't a huge problem, considering the person she'd be in trouble with for showing up late was currently lounging beside her, but—

"So call in sick," Spike murmured, lifting his hand to brush some stray strands of hair off her face.

Buffy froze beneath his hand's ministrations, opening her eyes again and blinking up at him. "What?"

"Call in sick," he said again simply, looking torn between laughing at the confusion on her face and being confused by her reaction himself.

"I can't do that," Buffy said quickly, pulling her cheek away from his hand and sitting up in bed. Impulsively, she reached for the duvet to cover herself with, then remembered she was still very much wearing her pajamas and didn't need to cover herself up.

Which almost wigged her more.

"Why not?" Spike asked casually, not moving from his position on her bed. Head still propped on his hand, he tilted it a little to the side and, eyes twinkling at her, said, "You afraid you'll get in trouble with the big boss? Have a feelin' he won't mind."

But Buffy was already shaking her head no.

"That's how it starts," she told him, dropping her hands down into her lap, dropping her eyes down to look at them.

Now he looked genuinely perplexed. "How what starts?"

"Well, okay." She twisted around to face him, her hands fidgeting where they rested in her lap. " _Today_ it's all cute and sweet and a one time deal that you want me to call in sick so I can stay in bed with you. And you're my boss, so…it's easy for me to say sure, that sounds great." _Like, really,_ really _great._ Buffy bit her lip. "But then it'll be a two time deal. Then a three. And before you know it I'm no longer Buffy, your employee. Or Buffy, your…protege." She sighed and let her shoulders sag forward, muttering, "I'm Buffy, your dirty mistress."

Spike laughed at her.

Tossed his head back and laughed, which normally would have infuriated her but she was a little too busy wondering just what exactly he thought was so funny to be properly outraged.

When he finally stopped laughing and dropped his gaze down to hers, eyes warm, he said, "First of all, that's never gonna happen. Even _if_ I wanted to forget that you work for me, you'd never let me. Besides that, if I want you to come work for me full time I need to make sure you're more'n qualified for the job before I offer it to you." She opened her mouth to argue with him but he held up a single finger to silence her, continuing on without even needing to hear her protest. "And I told you before, everything you get from me'll be somethin' you've rightly earned based on your job performance _alone_. So if you aren't prepared by the end of your internship, all that does is hurt me."

Whoa, bombshell.

Buffy gaped at him, not even sure where to begin with all of that. If he was planning to offer her a job, did that mean he wasn't planning to talk to his dad? To do anything about his situation?

Or was this whole offering her a job thing predicated on him being able to find some way out of the prenup he'd signed? And if that was the case, why even bring it up to her now?

And, _God_ , why did he have to look so pretty in the mornings? Did the man just not ever have bad days?

"And apart from that," he continued smoothly, smiling at her. "Allow me to illustrate the obvious." He swept a hand demonstratively along the very obvious space on the bed separating them, then arched a brow. "We aren't even doin' anything, pet. We're just layin' here having a chat."

Buffy closed her mouth.

He was right. On one hand, he was right. They weren't…doing anything. At least not in the doing anything sense of the word that included making with the physical. But what they were doing was a different kind of damning.

It was one thing to have generic, vague, unidentifiable and sometimes very lusty feeling for the man in front of her. Her boss. Her, albeit majorly unhappily, married boss. Feelings like that could sort of be ignored. Pushed aside. Lust was something that was generally pretty uncomplicated and straightforward.

This wasn't that.

She didn't know exactly what this was, maybe wasn't quite ready to start putting definable terms on it just yet, but it didn't feel straightforward or uncomplicated at all. It felt messy and unmanageable and potentially incredibly hurtful.

 _"_ _We're just layin' here having a chat."_

Buffy looked at Spike with open, earnest eyes, her voice not much more than a whisper as she told him, "That's how it starts."


	15. Chapter 15

**_-Thursday, June 18th. 9:02am-_**

"Hey, hey, if it isn't the Summers Patient," Xander chimed when he spotted Buffy heading over toward their cubicle set. Grinning widely at her, he rested his chin on the top of the partition overlooking her desk as she rounded the corner. "How you feeling, Buff?"

"Way better," she told him honestly as she returned the grin and set her leather folder down on top of her desk. "Thanks."

"You look better," Cordelia agreed, smiling up at her.

Buffy returned that smile too, feeling just a little guiltier about lying to Cordelia now than she had yesterday on the phone. But only a little. "Did I miss anything major yesterday?"

"Oh, no, nothing," Cordelia replied, shaking her head. Answering a question Buffy already knew the answer to. "Mr. Pratt was off site in meetings all day so you didn't miss a thing."

She nodded and bit down on her lip. "Anything big coming up with him today?"

"Umm, yeah," Cordelia murmured, turning around to glance at her computer, brining up the big color-coded calendar on the screen. "He's got a bunch of stuff on his calendar for later in the week, and he mentioned something about starting a new project." The brunette paused then, biting down on her own lip and turning toward Buffy again. "He asked me to send you into his office as soon as you got in."

"Okay, what?" Buffy asked, narrowing her eyes, looking over the weird face the brunette was making at her. "What's the matter?"

That wasn't that weird. Was it? Spike had left the same message with Cordelia multiple times since she'd been working for him, to send her to his office first thing in the morning. There was nothing out of the ordinary or off kilter about the request. So why was the other girl looking all awkward and wigged out?

Was it written all over her face or something? _I played hooky all day yesterday with my boss_.

"He just didn't seem...happy," Cordelia finally responded, then waved a dismissive hand. "That's all."

Buffy's stomach twisted.

"Oh," she said, blinking down at the other woman.

"I'm sure it's nothing," she assured her quickly, uncrossing her legs and turning fully to face her. "He's probably just in a bad mood. One of his meetings yesterday probably didn't go his way or something."

 _Or something_ was right.

"Yeah," Buffy agreed quietly, unconsciously turning her head and her eyes past the glass walled conference room and the maze like hallway leading toward the row of offices where she knew Spike was waiting for her. "That's probably it."

 ** _-Wednesday, June 17th. 10:19am-_**

"That...looks terrible," Spike mused from over Buffy's shoulder, peeking down into the bowl of what she believed to be perfectly edible looking cereal.

They'd been up for a couple hours before Buffy's stomach had finally started growling. She'd blushingly asked Spike if he was hungry and he'd replied that he could eat and, having both made separate phone calls into Cordelia to secure their hooky playing status, they'd hauled themselves out of bed and padded into the empty kitchen.

"What, you're not impressed?" she asked him now, turning to meet his gaze over her shoulder.

He did that thing where he answered her by not answering her. He liked to do that, a lot of the time saying more with a slight arch of his brow or a quirk of his lips than most people could manage speaking in paragraphs. His eyebrow arch now was telling her both no, he wasn't impressed, and the curve of his mouth said yes, he was aware that he wasn't actually meant to be amazed by her ability to pour milk over cereal.

In all fairness, she'd told him point blank she wasn't much of a cook.

Even so, she set the box of cereal down and turned fully around to face him, asking sardonically, "You'd do better?"

"Bloody right I would. Don't get up to bein' a self-proclaimed bachelor without mastering the basics. Eggs?" Buffy nodded, there was a beat between them, and then he grinned at her like he thought she was adorable. "Can you grab 'em for me, luv?"

"Oh," she said, blinking at him. _Right._ "Yeah. Anything else?"

Spike was already digging around beneath the stove, through the space Faith kept all of her cookware. "Butter."

Lips twitching up into a little involuntary smile, she turned and went to fridge. She retrieved the small carton of six eggs she'd bought earlier in the week and had yet to do anything with, along with an entire stick of butter since she had less than zero clue how much he actually needed. Bringing them over and placing them beside Spike at the edge of the counter, she was careful to stay out of his way as he began prepping the space around him. He'd already pulled out one of the larger metal skillets and was cranking the heat on her stove.

She stood quietly to the side as he proceeded to melt down a small tab of the butter from the stick she'd brought him into the skillet, grabbed up a spatula in one hand and popped the top of the egg crate with the other. He cracked two of them smoothly, still using only one hand, something she could remember watching both her mom and Dawn do but had never mastered herself. Buffy watched as he managed to keep both yolks whole and perfectly round as he dropped them down into the buttered skillet.

After a moment, he glanced her way. A smile in his voice, he said, "Well don't just stand there, make yourself useful."

"Doing what, exactly?" she countered, arching a sculpted brow. She gestured toward him with a wiggle of her fingers, pointing out how much room he was occupying. "You've hijacked my kitchen."

"You can reach the coffee pot, can't you?" he asked, turning back to his task, using the edge of the spatula to keep the rapidly whitening whites of the eggs carefully in line.

She eyed just how little room she actually had to squeak by him and reach for the coffee pot if he wasn't going to move out of her way. "If you squeeze over like...three feet, yeah."

She'd have to practically press herself right up against his still very much shirtless self to sneak past where he was standing.

Something he totally knew. _Had_ to know. Because all he did at her faux-protest was cast a wryly amused glance over his shoulder and tell her, "Don't make things difficult, Buffy."

Difficult. Because she was the one making things difficult by standing shirtless in her itty bitty, teeny weeny kitchen, purposefully taking up more room than was strictly necessary for the task being performed.

Right.

"Fine." Turning to the side so she could squeeze in between his elbow and the far edge of the countertop where her coffee pot was tucked into the corner, she noticed he subtly shifted to make the space just a tiny bit smaller. She turned and reached for it, having to brush the entire length of her arm against his as she did. Casting a narrow eyed glance his way before grabbing up the pot, fighting the urge to laugh, she said, "But don't think I don't totally know what you're doing."

"What am I doin'?" Spike queried, a smile in his voice, not looking at her. He maneuvered the spatula beneath one of the quickly frying eggs and suddenly flipped it over, then he shifted his arm back to its original position. He turned to face Buffy just as she was turning around to squeeze back through the small opening he'd left her.

Which left them nose to nose, the only thing keeping them from being chest to chest the cheap little Mr. Coffee she now had clutched between her hands. For a second, a really, really long second, neither of them moved. There wasn't anything particularly sexy about the moment, logically speaking. Buffy was still in her pajamas and she was pretty sure she had bed head and while fried eggs taste delicious, she didn't think they necessarily made the list of top ten aphrodisiacs.

That didn't seem to matter though.

Not to Buffy and certainly not to Spike, if the expression on his face was any indication. Especially because it felt like they'd been dancing around the particularly large, pastel colored, polka dotted elephant in the corner of the room ever since the power-outage kiss the night before.

There was a little electrical charge that felt like it was pulsing to life between them as they stood facing one another, staring. The only sounds were the sizzling of the eggs in her skillet and seemingly ever-present pitter-patter of rain on the windows. Eyes locked, lips slightly parted, she looked up at Spike torn somewhere between tossing the coffee pot aside and jumping into his arms and scrambling for the far end of the kitchen.

Undecided, Buffy just swallowed and didn't move away from him, very effectively pinned between his bare chest and the back wall of the itty-bitty space.

"What am I doin'?" Spike asked her again, more slowly this time. His voice lower. Glittering eyes glued to hers, he still had the spatula in his left hand and was beginning to twirl it lazily between his fingers in a way that probably shouldn't have been sexy but was anyway. Buffy's eyes shifted down to the spatula and the deft fingers holding it, then over to the still sizzling skillet, then back up to her boss's face.

"Showing me up in my own kitchen," she finally told him, the completely innocuous words coming out bizarrely seductive sounding to her own ears. His lips curved upward slightly and she found hers curving to match as she said quietly, "Worst houseguest ever."

 ** _-Wednesday, June 17th. 2:06pm-_**

Breakfast hadn't ended the way Buffy had expected it to.

Of course, the way she'd _expected_ it to being breakfast forgotten about altogether in favor of scissoring her legs around Spike's waist when he grabbed her up and set her down on her faux-marble countertop, kissing her neck and tearing the already ripped sleeping shirt from her body.

But it hadn't happened that way.

Whether she was grateful for that or not, well…the jury was still out. She hadn't even been one hundred percent sure she wanted that at all until it was suddenly all she could think about.

Not that it mattered, since it hadn't happened. Instead of dropping the spatula and picking up Buffy, Spike had just smiled blithely down at her, disagreed smugly that cooking her breakfast in her own kitchen actually made him the "best houseguest ever" in some circles, and proceeded to turn away from her and oh so casually finish the eggs that he'd started. Buffy, feeling as mentally confused by his attitude as her body seemed to be physically, had resigned herself to coffee making. Then he'd had her get two dishes, plated their food and actually _carried_ them over to the kitchen table which, up until that point Buffy was fairly certain hadn't seen any action at all, and they'd just...ate. And chatted. About nothing at all in particular. A little bit about work, a little bit about his family, an even littler bit about hers. He'd praised her coffee making skills.

A little sarcastically, but still.

Even now, several hours later, she still wasn't sure if it was all as bizarre as she seemed to think it was, or if she was making it all weirder than it needed to be with her obsessive over-thinking. But she couldn't help herself.

Was it weird that they'd spent all last night in her bed and he'd never made a single move on her? Was it weird that they'd spent all morning lounging around her empty apartment, and subsequently on into the afternoon—all the while Spike being _shirtless_ since he'd flat out refused to put the sweatshirt back on once he'd discovered it's origin—and that nothing had happened? Even after the opportunity had….presented itself, nothing. _Nothing_. He hadn't tried anything. Not one thing. Not even a kiss. Not even a _suggestion_ of a kiss.

Which _was_ weird, she finally decided. After the major smoochiness that had gone on before the power went out the night before, it was weird that there hadn't even been a single additional attempt at more.

And she was bugged by it.

What was worse, she still wasn't sure how she felt about the fact that she was bugged by it. Not because it bothered her that he was being a total gentleman about the whole thing, because it didn't. No, the fact that he was being so sweet and respectful and _good_ about being here all alone with her didn't bother her at all. It did the opposite of bother her.

It made her want him more.

And that's what she was thinking about, sitting cross legged on her couch and peeling the label off a half drunk bottle of water, when she heard the rattle of a key inserting into the lock. Buffy glanced up in time to see the apartment door swing open, revealing a slightly disheveled looking Faith, stumbling over the threshold holding her black heels in one hand and shaking her wet hair out.

Buffy watched from her spot on the couch as her roommate let the door fall shut behind her and finished shaking her head, flipped it back over and finally spotted her sitting there. She dropped her heels on the floor with a clatter and said casually, "Oh, hey, B." Peeled her black jacket off and tossed it to the side, making a face. "God, I'm _drenched_."

"You know, they have these funny newfangled things to keep that from happening," Buffy told her with a raise of her eyebrows, turning her attention absently back down to the water bottle in her lap. Began peeling the label again. "You hold them over your head, not supposed to open them inside?" She glanced back up. "Super handy."

Faith smirked at her, dropping her keys and her purse down onto the counter top and strolling further into the apartment. "Cute," she said, reaching up to throw her wet hair back up into a messy ponytail. "It's not like I expected it to still be Noah's Ark out there this morning."

"Afternoon," Buffy corrected her friend, finishing up her peeling. She folded the label up and tossed it down onto the coffee table, then set the half full bottle down beside it with a sigh.

"Right," Faith agreed, frowning down at the water bottle, then at Buffy in general. Like she'd just noticed it wasn't exactly normal for her roommate to be sitting at home on the couch in the middle of the afternoon. "So what are you doing home?"

Buffy glanced up at the brunette, then shifted back deeper into the couch cushions and said simply, "I called in sick."

"Are you sick?" Faith countered, crossing her arms and leaning her back casually into the edge of the kitchen counter.

"Not exactly," Buffy admitted, pressing her lips down and rubbing them together.

Her friend looked at her like that was all she needed to know. And it probably was, given what Buffy had managed to explain to the other girl the day before after leaving work early. In a rush of hurried, half strung together sentences, Buffy had told her all about…well, pretty much everything worth mentioning. That things with Spike weren't as over as she'd indicated they were, that she'd met his wife at work that morning, that the whole thing had left her inexplicably shaken and a little unsure of where to go from there.

She'd strategically left out the pieces regarding the family business, though. A good thing too, since when Buffy had anxiously admitted to Spike earlier that morning that she'd confided in her roommate about the things that had been happening between the two of them, the only thing he'd requested was that she not share the details of Pratt Publishing's semi-sordid ownership. She'd wondered about him not being more upset or uneasy over the fact that Faith knew so much about their goings on, but Spike had essentially told her he understood the need to have someone to talk things through with.

It had been especially difficult to keep herself from kissing him after that.

"Gotta tell ya, B," Faith began now, still leaning back against the countertop, the expression on her face a weird little mix between compassionate and annoyed. "The longer you put off dealing with this the worse I think it's gonna get. I know you're in a bad spot right now, but you can't just _never_ go back to work again."

Buffy frowned at her roommate. She thought she was here hiding?

"No, Faith—" Buffy started to explain, but the brunette shook her head, holding a hand out to indicate she wasn't finished talking yet. Dutifully shutting her mouth again, she pressed her lips together once more and waited patiently for her friend to continue.

"I know this whole thing is wicked hard for you, right? And I know getting some quality face to face time with the wife wasn't exactly fun for you. But walling yourself up at home isn't the answer, okay?" She dropped her hand again and said seriously, "Hiding from Spike's not gonna get you anywhere."

Buffy had to bite back the urge to laugh at that one. She might have been technically hiding out at home today, but she more than definitely wasn't hiding from Spike.

Far from it.

"No, I know," Buffy said, nodding her head instead of laughing like she sort of wanted to. Because apart from the fact that her friend had misread what was currently going on, Buffy really did feel like she knew that now. "I know." She glanced down into her lap again. "That's not what...this is."

"What do you…" the other girl trailed off, frowning deeply, her eyes drifting over Buffy's shoulder toward her half-open bedroom door, as if noticing it for the first time. She stood still for a second, not speaking, just listening. Then, her dark eyes going slightly wide, she looked back down at her roommate and asked slowly, "Is somebody in the shower?"

Buffy made a slightly sheepish face at her friend, wrinkling her nose up and shrugging her shoulders. Not saying yes, but not saying no, either.

Not that it mattered, because the other girl didn't seem to need any more confirmation than that.

"Oh my God." Faith dropped her voice to a loud stage-whisper and leapt away from the counter and toward the couch. Face lighting up in a massive grin, she asked, "He's in your _shower_?"

Buffy nodded. Then, seeing the downright devious expression steel over Faith's face, she added quickly, "But it's not what you think."

Faith laughed, raising her dark brows suggestively. "Mmm, sure it's not."

"It's _not,_ " Buffy insisted, though she was close to laughing a little herself. Both at the absurdity of the situation, that it sounded like she was lying when she knew she really wasn't, and at the idea that she still wasn't certain how she felt about that in the first place.

The brunette fixed her with a disbelieving look, cocking her head to the side and deadpanning, "So...your wicked hot boss didn't track you down after work, apologize about the wife thing and then spend the rest of the dark and stormy night screwing you into your mattress?"

Buffy wasn't quite prepared for the array of visual images that assaulted her just at the very mention of that. A little caught off guard, she just blinked at her friend for a minute, trying to get her unwieldy emotions and far too active imagination back under control.

"Well...it's sort of what you think," she was finally forced to admit, because really, Faith'd pretty much gotten the rest of it pegged. But she still had to add, " _Minus_ the screwing."

"Lame," Faith said, frowning deeply and folding her arms again. Looking nearly as disappointed as Buffy was beginning to feel. "That was the best part in my head."

"Yeah," she said quietly, shrugging her shoulders again. "It just wasn't...like that."

Her roommate rolled her eyes. "And I say it again; lame. Speaking of lame," Faith glanced over toward the open bedroom door again, brow furrowed as she seemed to consider something extremely difficult to understand. She glanced back at Buffy, frowning, pointed a finger in the direction of the bedroom and said, "Silver fox himself is in there, naked, in your shower...and you're sitting out here, fully clothed, on the couch." A beat. "What gives?"

Well when she put it like that, Buffy was kind of forced to ask herself the same question.

What _did_ give?

Spike had asked if she'd be alright with him showering at her place since he claimed to have meetings that afternoon and wouldn't have time to make it back to his condo beforehand. Of course she'd agreed, and he'd been considerate enough to ask if she needed to get in there before he did. She'd said no, that she'd be fine waiting until later, and he'd jokingly implied that they could be all with the environment helping and water conservation if she just wanted to go ahead and hop in with him.

To which Buffy had promptly blushed, laughed like an idiot, proceeded to stammer something along the lines of being a little late for Earth Day and wandered awkwardly out into the living room. Kicking herself the whole way.

But he'd been totally joking...she assumed.

"I told you," Buffy said quietly now, uncrossing her legs and pressing her feet down into floor. She looked down at her toes, thinking she should paint them again soon. "Last night wasn't...I don't know, it just wasn't...about _that_." She sighed heavily and glanced up, keeping her facial expression neutral and as earnest as possible. Because she _wasn't_ lying. She knew she wasn't. It just sort of sounded like she was.

And Faith wasn't buying it, anyway.

Eyeing Buffy with undisguised suspicion, she smirked down at her and said, "So let's pretend for like half a second that I actually believe Spike spent the night in your bed and you didn't make with the earth shattering sex…" she paused for effect, letting the words and the accompanying visual images sink in. Then, frowning, "What the hell _did_ you do all night?"

"Nothing really," Buffy told her honestly, sighing again as she got back up to her feet. She crossed to step into the kitchen, picking up the now more than cool skillet and placing it down in the sink. "I mean, we just talked. A lot." A beat as she flipped on the faucet, met her roommate's eyes over the top of it and said, " _A lot_ , a lot. And then we just...slept."

"You... _slept_ ," Faith repeated slowly, arching a disbelieving brow. "That's it?"

It must have been written on her face. That no, that _wasn't_ it. So she sighed, looked down into the sink, then back up again.

"There may have been some kissage," Buffy admitted, flipping the faucet back off, fighting and failing to keep the slow little smile off her lips as Faith returned it excitedly. "But that really _was_ it."

"Ha," the brunette said smugly, resting her elbows down on the countertop and leaning her weight into them. Still grinning broadly. "I knew it."

Buffy was about to tell her friend to wipe that wicked expression off her face but didn't get the chance. They were interrupted a second later by the sound of Buffy's bathroom door squeaking open, neither girl had noticed the sound of the shower cutting off, and a low sort of humming emanating from inside her bedroom.

"Buffy, pet," Spike said then, appearing in the doorway a moment later. His attention was down, focused on the task of doing up the silver buckle on his belt as he stepped into the living space. "You reckon that shirt's about dried out by now?"

"Well hey there, Spike," Faith called out loudly, with all the grace and subtlety of whistling at him, causing his gaze to snap up to hers instantly. For a split second Buffy was worried he was going to freak out and be mad that she hadn't warned him about Faith being home, or worse, that he was going to do that wiggy thing she'd seen him do out in front of the pizza place over the weekend and get all skeevy and too-charming.

In the end, he didn't do either.

"Faith," he said breezily, nodding once. Completely, totally, one hundred and ten percent unruffled by her presence and the fact that he was still definitely half naked. He stood up straight and tucked one hand casually into his pocket. "Good to see you again."

The brunette grinned wolfishly at him, tilting her head to the side and unashamedly running her eyes over his bare and still a little bit damp chest. "Good to see you again, too."

"Yep, totally dry," Buffy said loudly, earning herself a wide smile and a wink from her roommate as she turned toward the where she'd hung the purple button down up in the edge of the pantry the night before. It wasn't actually _totally_ dry, but it was dry enough. She took it down off the hanger and turned to hand it to Spike, a little surprised to see he was already standing behind her, waiting.

He took it from her, smirking and looking like he wanted to wink a little bit as he said, "Thanks, luv."

Buffy folded her arms over her chest and nodded, couldn't keep the matching smirk off her own lips as they gazed at each other.

It was quiet for a minute.

Then, "On _that_ note, I'm gonna go get ready for work." Faith pushed herself off the countertop, bent down and picked up her shoes, turned toward Buffy and asked, "Can I borrow your blow dryer? I can't show up at Chophouse looking like a drowned rat."

Buffy glanced toward the brunette and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You mean the blow dryer you borrowed yesterday that's probably still in your bathroom?"

"That's the one," Faith chirped, winking at her roommate over her shoulder as she strutted her way back toward her own bedroom door.

"You're lucky the power's back on," Buffy said wryly at the other girl's back just as she reached the door.

Faith paused, one hand on the doorknob, and glanced back over her shoulder once more. Eyes bright, expression wicked, she clicked her tongue and shook her head. "I can't believe the two of you were here together all night by yourselves, during a thunderstorm, with the power off...and you _still_ didn't do the dirty."

"Faith," Buffy scolded automatically, feeling her cheeks get all hot and red again.

"What?" the brunette asked, opening up her bedroom door and stepping halfway inside. Then, smirking sardonically at the blonde pair in front of her, she said, "Don't pretend like neither of you thought about it, 'cause there's no way you weren't thinking it then if I'm thinking it now."

And with that she gave a raspy little laugh, disappeared into her bedroom and shut the door behind her.

Again, it fell freakishly quiet. Tension crackling between the two of them the same way it had earlier during the Mr. Coffee incident, neither of them making a move to speak. Still standing opposite one another, like neither of them was exactly sure what to do now that someone had pointed a flashing neon sign directly in the face of the topic they'd been side-stepping all day.

"Umm," Buffy finally murmured, making the first move. She skirted around Spike and exited the small space, coming to a stop where the kitchen melted into the living room. "I'm sorry about that."

Spike chuckled, turning to face her, slipping first his left arm and then his right back into the slightly wrinkled purple shirt. "I like a girl who's forthright." He grinned, reaching his fingers around to adjust the collar as he said, "Find it incredibly sexy."

"Oh, I bet you do," she muttered dryly, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling as she turned around and started to head back toward her bedroom.

He followed, like she figured he would, falling in step behind her just as she reached the door. A barely disguised smirk in his voice, he asked, "You gonna hop in the shower then?"

"I was thinking about it." Buffy paused once she reached the edge of her mattress, turning back around to see Spike just finishing with the buttons on his shirt. Folding her arms, she leaned back against the side of her bed and said, "Unless you used up all my hot water."

"Mmm." Spike made a show of considering her question, reaching both hands up to run them through his damp bleached blonde curls, smoothing them back from his forehead. Then he dropped his hands again, cocked his head to the said and murmured, "It's possible."

"Worst houseguest ever," Buffy reiterated teasingly, kind of wanting to reach up and re-ruffle his hair. She forced the urge back, opting instead to tighten her arms over her chest.

"Wouldn'a been a bloody problem if you'd just joined me like I asked," he teased back saucily, a flicker of genuine and _very_ thinly veiled hunger flickering across his face as he did.

Ignoring her body's reaction to the whole predatory stare thing, she ducked around him and approached her dresser. Opening the top drawer, not really looking for anything in particular but feeling the need to look busy, she said, "Then we would've had a problem of a whole different kind, buddy."

And that was it, there it was. The first either of them had come to mentioning _it_ at all, under the guise of a poorly camouflaged joke. There was a hint of forced casualness in her voice that, instead of sounding truly casual, sounded more like she was inviting him to argue with her. Whether Spike sensed the same thing or not, she wasn't sure. Didn't really want to turn around to find out. She continued to search through the open drawer, sort of just shifting clothes around as she waited for him to say something.

When he finally did, his voice was low. Thoughtful. Just a little bit husky. "Would it really be so terrible?"

"Taking a cold shower?" Buffy quipped, "finding" what she'd been looking for and shutting the drawer again. Turning back around. "I mean, I've never actually done it before but—"

"Havin' sex," Spike said, very no nonsense as he cut her off, his eyes glued to hers.

She blinked at him, twisting the t-shirt in her hands, thinking something in her head along the lines of _and the walls came tumbling down._

"You really just...went for it, didn't you."

"Not like we haven't don't it before," he replied simply, quietly. All pretense vanishing in the blink of an eye. Looking at her now with a sort of single-minded intent, slowly approaching her. "Besides, don't see much point in beatin' round the bush at the moment, luv. As...charmingly forthright as your little roommate is, she's not wrong." He paused, leaving a little less than a foot between them, inhaling deeply. Eyes trailing over her face, down her neck. "Be lyin' out my bloody teeth if I said I hadn't thought about it." Across the bit of exposed skin over by her left shoulder. "That I didn't spend the whole sodding night thinkin' about it."

Her first reaction to hearing him admit that was pure, unadulterated satisfaction. In fact, it was her second and third reactions as well. Her fourth reaction was still somehow legitimate surprise, having somehow managed to convince herself over the course of the past twelve or so hours that the lustiness had been completely one sided.

Looking at him looking at her, she asked, "You did?"

His rapidly darkening eyes drifted back up to hers. "You didn't?"

It wasn't a rhetorical question, she realized dimly. He was actually asking her. God, how could he have not known?

Had that whole practically mauling him at her bedside thing _not_ been a clear enough indication?

"But you...were gonna leave," Buffy insisted quietly, shaking her head. Eyes never leaving his. "Before you found out Faith wasn't coming home, you were all...leaving guy."

"I was," he agreed with a nod, and the impact of those two words hit her harder than she expected.

"And then you wanted to sleep on the couch," she pointed out, turning to glance over her shoulder toward the open bedroom door like somehow being able to see it would help prove her point.

" _Wanted_ is a very strong word."

"But when we were in bed you didn't…" Buffy trailed off when she turned back to find Spike just a little closer, his eyes shamelessly roaming over her. Swallowing, giving a little absent gesture toward her bed, she murmured, "I mean, you didn't…"

"Try anythin'?" Spike asked, gaze flicking to hers.

She blinked again. "Yeah."

He arched a brow and ducked his gaze to better catch hers, saying wryly, "You tellin' me I could've?"

That question _was_ a rhetorical one, equal parts sarcastic and almost gently knowing. Like he didn't actually need to ask in order to get his answer. Which, she guessed by the expression on his face, he'd already assumed was a big, red, blinking _no_.

It was a rhetorical question.

So why Buffy fixed her eyes to his and answered with a flat, honest "Probably", she wasn't even sure. She was surprised by her directness.

Spike was speechless.

Literally. He just stared at her, shifting back a little onto his heels like he suddenly needed the space. Distance to fully wrap his head around the single, simple word she'd just spoken. Both brows raised, it was his turn to blink.

And Buffy felt like catching him off guard might be her new favorite thing to do.

Smiling a little, she said, "You look surprised."

"I...well, yeah," he admitted, finally seeming to find his voice again. "I mean if I'd known _that_ …"

"I'm glad you didn't," Buffy told him, partially because she felt like she needed to and also because it might have been true. At least somewhat true. Off his deep frown, she added in a rush, "I mean, I'm not... _glad_ you didn't, but it was nice." She glanced down. "The talking was nice."

That part was completely true.

And he looked pleased. Both by what she'd told him outright, and by what she'd only hinted at. Inching closer to her, he pressed, "But you wouldn't have said no?"

"No," she answered immediately, going solely based off the niggling voice she'd had in the back of her head all morning and afternoon, the one that kept whispering there was absolutely nothing wrong with her making the first move. Then she thought about it and amended softly, "At least I don't _think_ so."

Spike looked irritated now. "Right," he said, then turned and stepped away from her, closing her bedroom door and returning to his place in front of her. "Here's a question. Did you want me to try somethin' with you last night?"

 _Oh, boy._

She had to think about that one for a second. Not wanting to have a knee jerk reaction, wanting to be as honest and truthful and _forthright_ as she possibly could. She wanted to say yes, because that's what the voice in the back of her head was shouting. She also kind of wanted to say no, because even though she'd been aching for him to do _something_ pretty much all day…she honestly wouldn't have traded the night before for anything. So she settled on something somewhere in the middle, what she hoped was an adequate response.

"Maybe."

She registered his disappointment immediately. "Maybe?" Spike echoed, voice flat.

"Yes, maybe," she said again, a little more firmly this time. Watching as he took a step back from her, his eyes toward the floor, she sighed. " _What_?"

Spike looked back up and met her eyes, gazed at her for a long moment, hollowing his cheeks and pursing his lips. He nodded slowly, but not like he was agreeing. Like he was trying really hard to think about what to say next before he said it.

"Maybe isn't an answer, Buffy," he said finally.

Frowning, she countered, "Yes it is."

"Christ," he growled suddenly, the sudden anger in his voice making her eyes go wide. He turned away from her and shook his head, the next words spoken half under his breath. "You're drivin' me round the bloody bend, pet."

And the _way_ he said that...the sheer weight of the words. She felt them right at the center of her chest, and it didn't take much for her to understand that this conversation was suddenly about a lot more than just what had or hadn't or might have happened between them the night before. Somehow, in the matter of mere seconds, this conversation had become about something way bigger.

But changing the rules in the middle of the game wasn't exactly fair.

"What is it you want from me here?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. Starting to feel herself getting angry.

"Nothing," Spike said automatically, waving a dismissive hand and looking away from her. Then he paused. Thought about it again. Laughed softly at himself and shook his head, like in his mind he already knew what he was about to say was an impossibility.

And even if it was, he still turned to Buffy and said softly, "Everything."

Goosebumps.

Instantly.

"Gee," she snarked, covering for the sudden full body tingle the look in his eyes and the desperation in his voice had caused. "That clears everything _right_ up."

"You wanna know what I want from you, luv?" he asked her angrily, pointing an accusatory finger in her direction for emphasis. "I want you to know what _you_ want."

The tone of his voice reminded her of being scolded. The way her teachers might have admonished her for passing notes in elementary school, like somehow it was a product of her age and not the totally impossible situation they were in that was responsible for her indecision.

"How do you expect me to know what I want when you don't know yourself?" Buffy asked just as angrily, recalling the conversation they'd had on her bed the night before as a little surge of righteous indignation propelled her forward and into his space. She threw the shirt she'd plucked out of her dresser and it hit the side of her bed frame with a smack. "How is that fair?"

"Look around you, Buffy," Spike demanded, spreading his arms out wide. "Nothin' about this situation is _fair_."

And she had nothing to say to that. Couldn't deny it, couldn't argue. Couldn't claim it was somehow less fair to her than it was to him, or to his family. Or God, even to Cecily. There'd been about a million and one different things he could have said to her, and he'd somehow chosen the one thing guaranteed to stop her dead in her tracks.

No. Nothing about their situation was fair.

And why did that somehow seem to make everything so much easier?

"I know that," she told him quietly, softening.

Spike softened, too. She watched his face closely as the tight set of his lips relaxed and his eyes gentled, the azure blue that had darkened to a stormy navy searching her face just as carefully. Then he inhaled a deep breath through his nose, let it out slowly through his mouth. They continued to gaze at each other like that for a minute, unmoving. Not speaking. Feeling the weight of whatever it was Buffy _knew_ they were both sensing. It felt important. It _felt_ like a turning point.

"I know you do," he finally agreed, his voice low and honeyed. "Know all this is hard for you, luv, but you've gotta help me out here." He paused to gauge her reaction to his words, determining whether he should approach her or not. He must have found what he was looking for on her face, because he stepped closer to her. Reached a hand up to cup her cheek. "Fact of the matter is I can't make any decisions movin' forward until you know. If you want me to leave you alone, I'll bloody well leave you alone. But if you want _me_...Either way, the decision's all yours." He pulled his hand away from her face and stepped back again, tilted his head to the side and said softly, "I'm just askin' you to make one."

 ** _-Thursday, June 18th. 9:08am-_**

Buffy didn't knock on his office door when she reached it, even though it was closed. She didn't see the point. Taking a breath, she wrapped her hand around the door handle and turned, pushing the heavy door open and stepping inside.

She hadn't seen him since he'd left her apartment the afternoon before. She wasn't quite prepared for the way she felt seeing him again now.

Spike was standing behind his desk. Hunched over, knuckles braced on either side of the paper he was looking at. He didn't look up immediately even though she was fairly sure he'd taken notice of her when she'd come in.

Deciding just to go with it if he really was in a not so great mood, she inched a little further inside and asked softly, "You wanted to see me?"

"Shut the door," Spike told her.

Buffy did as he'd asked without questioning it, then turned back around. Crossing over the pretty patterned rug toward the center of the room, she slid her bag off her shoulder and set it down on the leather chair. "Busy day today?" she asked conversationally, pulling her laptop out of the bag and moving to set it down on her corner of the desk.

"Very," he said simply, glancing up from the paper he'd been reading. Eyes bright on hers, he straightened up and began walking around to the front of his desk. He paused when he reached the right corner. Still eyeing her, tilting his head to the side, he asked, "You made your decision, then?"

Buffy made a face at him, finished opening her computer and turning it on, swiveling around to face him. Sighing loudly, shifting her hip into the side of the desk, she frowned for a moment.

And then she smiled. "You already know I have."

The words were barely out before Spike was grabbing for her, smiling lips pressed to smiling lips as he kissed her greedily right in the middle of his office.

 ** _-Wednesday, June 17th. 3:47pm-_**

She guessed she really had made her decision. At least it definitely felt that way at the moment. Tangled up in her sheets, comfortably sore, her cheek pillowed against Spike's chest. He had his arm wrapped around her, trailing little patterns over her shoulder with his fingertips.

Yep.

 _Hell in a hand basket, party of one._

If she was completely honest with herself, she'd probably made the decision…in her heart if not her head…long before what felt like such a definitive moment now. The one in her bedroom an hour ago. The one where she'd thrown everything out the window and herself into Spike's waiting arms, kissing him breathless. Where he'd helped tear the shorts and ratty old t-shirt from her body and she'd frantically undone the buttons he'd so carefully done up, falling in a frantic, naked heap onto her bed. A tangle of entwined limbs and grasping hands, covetous lips, they hadn't bothered to crawl beneath the covers. Unwilling to waste another second in the frenzy of sensory overload, they fought each other for dominance until she'd finally locked her legs around his waist, scraped her nails across his back and said please.

Panting, neither of them saying a single word, their combined kiss-muffled moans had been the only sounds in the room. And finally, pleasured gasps mingling in the crackling air between them, they'd come together on top of the unmade bed in the grey afternoon light.

Buffy realized now as she lay beside him that this was the first time they'd ever slept together, slept together, and she hadn't pretty much bolted for the door immediately afterward.

God, she'd been missing out. Cuddly after glow Spike was almost better than primal passion Spike.

Almost.

That's what she was in the midst of thinking when he turned his head toward her, pressed his lips into her hair and asked softly, "You feel guilty?"

She opened her eyes again.

"No," Buffy said, just as softly. "I mean, _yeah_. I do. But it's…I don't know." She sighed and adjusted her position a little, pushing herself up so she was propped on her elbow beside him and could see his face. She bit down on her bottom lip, thought it over, then said, "It's like I feel more guilty about _not_ feeling guilty if that makes sense."

She hoped it did, because she wasn't sure she could think of a better way to describe exactly the way she _was_ feeling. She was also sort of in this day dreamy state of mind where she was feeling all blissed out and not particularly in the mood to do a lot of deep self-reflection. That would come later, she knew. All of that would come later.

It was surprising how well the tingly afterglow and endorphin flood of being skin to skin with the man beside her worked to keep her usual, predictable, guiltiness from eating at her.

"It does," Spike promised her gently, tugging her back down against him. She melted easily back into his chest, smiling a little when he tightened his hold on her just a tiny bit. Like he was worried if he let up even a little she'd go sprinting out her bedroom door.

Buffy did the exact opposite, nuzzling her cheek deeper into his chest and curling her hand up beneath her chin.

She wasn't sure exactly when she'd made the decision to tell him, only that she had. Likewise, she hadn't decided when exactly she was going to tell him, just that she was. So after a few more minutes passed in comfortable quiet, when it just sort of slipped out on a whisper because the moment felt right, she let it.

"My dad cheated on my mom."

Buffy felt him tense up beneath her. Just for a second, and then he relaxed again. His arm tightening around her, he whispered back, "Sort of assumed that bit."

She'd figured as much. That it probably didn't take rocket science to figure out why she would have kept harping on and on about not wanting to be the other woman. But the fact that he'd probably known, at least for a little while, why she'd kept bringing that particular objection up and never felt the need to bring it up himself spoke volumes. And let her know that telling him was exactly the right thing to do.

Not looking at him, keeping her eyes focused on the little circle she was tracing over his skin with her index finger, she nodded. "He left her...left us, I guess...for this other woman. She was younger. A lot younger, actually." She laughed softly, awkwardly. A little unsure why that particular detail felt more poignant than it ever had before. She cleared her throat. "Uh, they were together for a little while, I think. A couple months maybe. I can't remember if she went with him when he moved to Spain or not or if they were already broken up by then. Whatever." She shook her head, braced her hand flat against his chest and shifted up into a half sitting position again. Looking into his face, searching his eyes, she said, "The point is that's why I've been the way I've been about all this. About you. You know, I've seen firsthand what the 'other woman' can do to a family. And usually for nothing." She chewed the inside of her cheek and dropped her eyes. "I never wanted..."

"This isn't that," Spike insisted immediately, sliding his free hand up into her hair. Brushing his thumb against her temple, looking at her with such a guileless expression that she believed him. She believed that he believed this wasn't that. But she wanted to do more than believe that _he_ believed it.

So she asked.

"Why?" Buffy shifted on the mattress to put a little space between them, his hand slipping from her hair. "Because...instead of breaking up a family I'll be condemning your family business? And for what. A few months of...this?" She gestured emphatically between the two of them, scooting backward and using her free hand to gather the sheets to her chest. "Sneaking around?"

"No," he disagreed immediately. "Not forever."

She ignored him, even though hearing him say the sneaking wouldn't be a forever thing did its share to warm her, and pressed on. "Stealing glances and secretive touches at the office and hoping no one notices? Spending days on end locked away in my bedroom?"

"That last bit doesn't sound half bad," Spike admitted, giving Buffy a playful little leer and lunging for her.

But Buffy maneuvered away from him before he could get his hands on her again, missing her by an inch. She laughed a little in spite of herself, a strained sound, as she commanded, "Please, be serious."

"I am bein' serious, hey—" Spike finally got hold of her upper arms, tugging her back across the mattress toward him, twisting her around so he was holding her on top of his lap. Ducking his gaze to hers, he told her seriously, "You listen to me. This isn't some throw away, fly by night tryst to me, Buffy. You're not a passing fancy because I got bored at home." He shook her just a little, just enough to let her know he was making a point, and added, "For fuck's sake, I'm not spendin' my days lounging around with you then goin' home to a doting wife and three little rug rats."

His intensity momentarily took her breath away. Quashed her argument. He'd been telling her this for what felt like weeks, of course. That he wasn't after an affair. That what was happening between them was about more than sex. That the only reason he hadn't left his wife years ago was because of the extenuating circumstances surrounding their relationship. Extenuating circumstances he was currently in the middle of trying to find a way out of.

Because of her.

Something she could see very clearly in his eyes as he looked at her now.

"I know that," she told him quietly, feeling a little like she was enjoying his possessiveness more than she should be. But it was kind of hard not to. The _I am woman, hear me roar_ in her was incensed, thinking growly possessiveness should so not be hot. That it was archaic and rude and that man handling was definitely not okay. But the other part of her, the part that was relishing in the fierceness in his eyes and his voice just kind of didn't care. She didn't think she'd ever been wanted by anyone, ever, the way she was starting to think Spike wanted her.

All of her.

"You say you do," he said earnestly. "But I…this is real. _This_ …" He loosened his hold on her upper arms and let his palms slide down to her elbows. His eyes burning into hers, he inhaled deeply. Exhaled and murmured, "Jesus, Buffy, you're the first _real_ thing to me in years."

Her chest got all fluttery and warm at the words. Normally, she tried to ignore the warm tinglies he gave her. Tried to shove them back down and pretend they didn't have the effect they so obviously did. Now though, she just let herself indulge in them a little.

Quietly, an itty bitty smile quirking the corner of her lips, she asked, "Are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

"Mmm, no." Spike shook his head. "Sayin' it cause' it's the truth. And it's how I feel, selfish sod that I am." He smiled at her, matching the slight curve of her lips with his own. But the small smirk didn't do anything to take away from the sincerity in his eyes as he pulled his hands from her arms and slid them up her back. "Shouldn't feel guilty for choosing what you want and goin' after it, pet."

There was some faulty logic there, she was pretty darn sure…not that she was super interested in disagreeing with him at the moment.

"Who says I want you?" Buffy asked him, shifting back on his lap and raising her eyebrows high.

He chuckled at her, low and rumbling in the back of his throat.

"I make no such presumption," he said, leaning forward to kiss her smiling mouth. She met him halfway, parting her lips and kissing him deeply. Still perched on his lap, already craving more contact, she didn't protest when Spike roughly yanked the sheets away from her chest to leave them bunched around her hips. Instead, she shivered and pressed herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and moaning into his mouth.

He'd just reversed their positions, flipping her over onto her back and pinning her down into the mattress when his phone rang.

Growling against her lips, he tore his mouth from hers and groaned. Reaching for his phone, which he'd left on her bedside table beside his silver lighter, he snatched it up and read the name on the screen quickly before silencing it again.

"Bugger," he muttered, setting the phone back on the table and turning his eyes down to Buffy's. His expression was apologetic. And mildly annoyed.

"Do you need to go?" she asked, biting down on her tingly lower lip. Lightly scraping at his shoulders with her nails.

"Yeah." He said it like he really wanted to say no. Like he wanted to say no but had to say yes. Briefly, Buffy wondered whose name had been flashing on his phone's screen. If it could have been Cecily's, maybe. Or even his dad. She didn't really get a chance to think about it though, because Spike was kissing her again. A slow, deep, toe curling kiss...followed right up with a quick peck. Then he reluctantly peeled himself off her and jumped out of the bed.

Grabbing up his pants, he stepped into them and said, "You should stay, though. Make yourself at home." He buckled his belt with a flourish. "Order room service."

She felt her lips twitch.

"Cool," Buffy said, playing along. Tucking the sheets up under her arms once more, she sat up and pressed her back into the headboard. "Can I charge your credit card?"

Already halfway through buttoning up his shirt, Spike shot her a sidelong glance and a wink. "Baby, you can do whatever you'd like."

They shared a smile, and Buffy watched lazily from her spot as he finished doing up the shirt and adjusted the collar, turning his attention toward rolling up his sleeves. Methodically, starting with the left and ending with the right. Then he checked his back pocket for something, moved to the bedside table and grabbed up his phone and his lighter. Tucked them smoothly into his pockets, then turned toward her.

Looking down into her face, the smirk slipping away to be replaced by something soft and sweet, he sighed and murmured, "Wish I could stay."

Oh, yeah.

She was _absolutely_ sure no one had ever looked at her like that. "Then why don't you?"

"Do you want me to?" Spike asked her thoughtfully, moving so he was seated on the very edge of her bed.

She laughed at him. "Do you just want me to say it?"

He answered her by not answering her. Staring steadily into her eyes, raising both dark brows in a show of expectancy.

Still smiling, thinking it over, Buffy pulled her lower lip into her mouth. Nibbled on it. Then, wrinkling her nose up, "Will you stay if I do?"

He pretended to really think it over. "There's a chance," he said finally, smirking as he reached over her and placed his hand flat on the mattress.

And that was a chance Buffy decided she wanted to take.

"Stay, Spike." She reached up and gripped his elbow lightly in her hand, letting her eyes scan his face. Slid her fingers slowly over the Royal purple fabric covering the muscle of his bicep. "I want you to stay."

His eyes flashed just once in pure, undiluted delight.

And then he got back to his feet.

"No can do, luv. Actually do have an appointment at 4:30." She gaped at him. He grinned widely at her. All sparkling eyes and boyish dimples as he backed up a little ways toward her door and told her, "Bloody brilliant hearin' you say it, though."

Buffy grabbed a hold of a pillow and threw it at him. "Get out of my room."

But she was laughing.

And so was he.

 ** _-Thursday, June 18th. 9:09am-_**

It was by far the best start to a work day she'd ever had. He tasted especially strong of mint, just the tiniest trace of something sweet on the tip of his tongue as he used it to massage hers.

And every muscle in her body was crying out in relief, melting into him without question. Without thought. A junkie finally getting their fix.

She hadn't even realized she'd been jonesing for him.

Spike pulled away from Buffy, his hands having migrated up to cup her face, smiling at her as her eyes fluttered open very wide. Even with everything that had happened in the two days before, she hadn't been expecting that.

Not here.

Hadn't they had a rule about that?

Hadn't she cared a lot more about said rule two days ago?

"Sorry," he chuckled warmly, swiping the pad of his thumb beneath the swell of her lower lip. "Smudged your pretty lipstick."

As evidenced by the coral pink smear she spotted at the corner of his mouth. Reaching her own hand up to clear the tiny stain away, she told him laughingly, "It's okay."

"Well, in that case," he rumbled in a voice that was way too seductive for nine in the morning, grabbing hold of her hand to twine his fingers with hers and kissing her again.

She let him for a second. Just one. Then, remembering the rule she was supposed to care about and the fact that they were still standing in the center of his office with a massive floor to ceiling window about seven feet to their right, she panicked. Just a little.

Turning her head slightly to the side to break the kiss Buffy said, "Spike, no." She put her hands gently on his chest and pressed back, allowing him to kiss just the corner of her mouth once more before truly putting space between them. Dropping her hands, shaking her head, even though she was halfway laughing at him, she lowered her voice and said, "No."

He pouted at her but kept the distance between them. "Why not?"

"You know why not," Buffy insisted. Raised her brows at him. "Work while we're at work, remember?"

"It a crime that I've missed you?" Spike mused, lowering his voice to a sultry murmur.

"Not a _crime_ ," she emphasized flatly, giving him an even look. Her most no nonsense expression. "Plus, we had a rule—"

"I know, I know," he said, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and folded his arms. "You and your ruddy rules." Then he smirked and arched a brow. "You, know, there're exceptions to every—"

Buffy was shaking her head before he even got the words out. On this one distinct issue, she was not going to be moved.

" _No_ , okay? No…" she trailed off, cast a furtive glance over her shoulder toward the closed office door. Then, turning back to him, dropped her voice to a whisper and said, " _kissing_ at work."

Grumbling at her, he took a step backward. Arched another cocky brow. "Spoilsport."

"What's the deal, anyway?" She asked, eyes on him as he sat down on the edge of his large mahogany desk. "Cordelia said you were all bad moody."

"I was," he agreed with a nod. Then another smirk. "Hadn't seen you yet today."

Buffy made a face at him which she felt effectively covered the heat flooding her cheeks, shaking her head at him and turning her eyes down to her computer screen. "I thought you called me in here to discuss work."

"I did," he agreed again, and she could feel his eyes on her face. "Assumin' that means you're ready to dive back in then?" Spike asked.

"Head first," Buffy replied, shooting him a sidelong glance.

"Brilliant," he said, smacking his palm down animatedly on his desk with a smack, standing back up. "Because I have a manuscript here that's goin' to make you do that lovely little blushing bit you do when I make you read it." He practically danced himself back around to his chair. "Personally, I can't wait."

Buffy laughed at him. She couldn't help it.

"God, you're like a kid in a candy story," she snickered, finding his eagerness all kinds of warm and adorable and infectious. She sat down in her chair just as he sat down in his and quirked a brow. "How much coffee have you had this morning?"

He pulled open the infamous bottom drawer of his desk and hauls out a stack of papers, slapping them down in front of himself and saying, "Not an ounce, believe it or not."

"Or not," she teased him.

He narrowed his gaze at her in a mock-glare, but nothing could diminish the boyish glint in his eyes. "Not over caffeinated, Buffy. " Flipping the paper stack around, placing his hand on it and sliding it across the desk toward her. She glanced at the top page, gaze scanning over the title briefly— _A Change of Heart_ —before flickering back up to Spike's.

And with those azure eyes glittering knowingly at her, he said, "Just happy is all."


	16. Chapter 16

**_-Friday, July 19th. 4:18pm-_**

The manuscript Spike had been so anxious to get started on had turned out to be another romance novel.

Go figure.

Okay, no, it hadn't been quite as Harlequin as the first one he'd made her read, but it was definitely more than a little blush worthy during most of the…more _colorful_ love scenes.

But Spike had surprised her by not asking her to read those bits of the text out loud. In fact, he hadn't required her to read any of it out loud. He'd slid her copy a little closer to her and promptly pulled a second one out of the bottom drawer for himself.

At Buffy's arched brow, he'd smiled at her and said, _"_ _I wanna try somethin' a bit different with this one."_

That "something different" had turned out to be reading. Nothing more, just…reading. No editing, no suggestions, no stopping to discuss anything about the manuscript at all. The two of them had spent the rest of the day Thursday and on into the morning Friday simply reading together. In comfortable quiet, seated across the sturdy desk from one another, they kept a similar pace. Turning pages at almost exactly the same rate as they moved through the especially thick manuscript. Hardly speaking, never touching, but every so often Spike would clear his throat and Buffy would look up from her copy to find him gazing at her. Always with the same bright, knowing expression on his face. Then he'd either smirk or wink at her before turning back to the text in front of him.

All told, including the time she'd spent reading on Thursday night, it had taken her around eighteen hours to finish the cursory read through.

Now, she flipped her manuscript shut and sighed, leaning back in her leather chair and reaching her arms up high above her head to stretch them out. Spike had finished roughly ten minutes before she had, and he sat back in his own chair watching her. Eyes locked on her face.

Finally, she dropped her hands back down into her lap with a plop. Blinked at him.

"What do you think?" Spike asked her, propping his elbows on either side of his chair and weaving his fingers together.

"I think you chose this one for a reason," Buffy responded simply, fixing him with a knowing look of her own.

He smirked. "Maybe." Tilted his head to the side. "Doesn't change the fact I still wanna hear what you thought about it."

Buffy thought that over for a minute, pressing her lips together thoughtfully. Then she sighed and asked, "Honest answer?"

"Always."

Buffy reached out and placed her hands on top of the manuscript, glancing down at it. She drummed her fingers on top of it a few times and then turned her gaze back toward her boss.

"I don't know," she told him truthfully.

Spike seemed to find that interesting, his expression animating itself in the form of a perked brow. "On the fence then," he murmured, nodding. "Why?"

She was afraid he was going to ask her that.

Pursing her lips, she thought it over. Sheepishly she explained, "I don't know all the technical terms for it."

Spike smiled disarmingly at her. Unfolded his hands, shifting over slightly in his chair to prop his chin up on the knuckles of his right hand. "Then start by tellin' me how you felt while reading it."

Buffy had to think about that for a minute, too. Finding she really, really wanted to give him the right answer…whatever the right answer was. She had the very distinct feeling that he was testing her or something, like he was very purposefully asking her what she thought without giving away a single, solitary hint as to his own thinking. She tried in vain to read his face for some little giveaway, a tell…either of what he was thinking or what he was trying to do, but she couldn't find a single thing. His expression was totally impassive.

So she inhaled deeply through her nose and said slowly, on the exhale, "Confused." Buffy looked back down at her hands, the copy beneath them. Frowned. "Like…half the time I felt like I knew what the author was trying to do, and I _liked_ what they were trying to do. I liked the actual premise, but it was all messy."

She risked a glance back up to his face to find him still gazing at her, expression still a little aloof.

"Messy," Spike repeated flatly, still zero indication in his tone of whether or not he thought she was right or wrong. "Can you elaborate?"

"You disagree?" she asked, gauging his reaction to her question. Which was disappointing to say the least, since he hardly reacted at all. Other than his lips twitching on one side into just the barest hint of a smirk, that was.

"We're not talkin' about what I think right now," he told her, lifting his chin off his knuckles and leveling her with a knowing stare. Narrowing his eyes a little, his brows drew together. "You say it's messy. How so? You found it sloppily written?"

Buffy frowned.

No. She hadn't found it sloppily written at all, actually. The actual writing had been super clean…if not maybe a teeny bit overblown.

"No," she began slowly, thinking it over again in her head. She drummed her fingers against the manuscript once more before pulling her hands back to her lap. "Okay, _messy_ isn't the best word I guess."

She paused then, waiting uncertainly for Spike to prompt her, or for him to finally tell her what he'd thought of the manuscript himself.

He didn't.

Instead, he sat patiently in his chair and waited for her; raised his eyebrows, gave her a single encouraging nod. She figured that was as much of a prompt as he was going to give her at the moment, so she sat back in her chair again and thought it over in the easy silence between them.

Finally, feeling like she knew what it was she'd meant to say, she offered, "It felt…unfocused. Like the author had too many different ideas bouncing around in their head and instead of picking the best one and fixating on it they went with all three and tried to weave them together."

Spike nodded again, remaining entirely expressionless as he said, "I see."

"And the whole love story was too ooey gooey," Buffy added with an absent wave of her hand, warming to her subject now. "It just sort of gave me the wiggins."

Now he cracked a downright fiendish smile. "Yes I believe that is the technical term for it."

Buffy caught herself smirking back at him. "Shut up," she murmured, folding her arms over her chest. "Are you gonna tell me what you thought now?"

Spike chuckled and said, "We'll get to that. First I want to know if you'd attempt to take this to committee."

 _Ah hah._ So this was a test then.

And the test wasn't over just yet. She couldn't ignore the symmetry between the moment that was happening now and the very similar moment that had happened during her first week at Pratt, the similar line of questioning he'd thrown her way about the very first manuscript she'd read.

But it felt different.

"Why?" She asked, making a face at him, her brow furrowing as she narrowed her eyes.

Spike leaned toward her and narrowed his eyes in turn. "Because I wanna know, that's why."

"That's not a real reason."

"Bloody hell," he groaned, but there was a levity in his voice that belied the annoyance. "Are you goin' to challenge every buggering thing I say now?"

" _Now_?" Buffy asked mischievously, arching a sculpted brow.

He rewarded her with a deep, throaty chuckle. "Good point. Just answer the question for me, pet. Would you," he tapped the top of his copy once, "or would you not," once again, "option this manuscript for publishing if the decision were up to you?"

Her eyes darted down from the mischievous glint in his azure eyes down to his hand, his long fingers, then back to his face again. Squaring her shoulders, cocking her head to the side, she asked, "Would you?"

"Uh, uh, uh," he chided her silkily, leaning back in his chair again. "Told you already luv, this isn't about me right now."

She was going to have a very serious talk with him about the not looking at her like that while they were at work. It had this funny way of making her go all melty and hazed out, which wasn't exactly ideal for trying to actually do her job.

And on top of that, she still couldn't tell what she was supposed to tell him. What the answer to his question _should_ be. It was a test, she knew that for certain now. Not necessarily a bad one, just his way of gauging her progress, to see what she'd learned in the month she'd been working for him. He wanted to know if she could make the business savvy decision regarding a manuscript without any coaching or conditioning from him, and she desperately wanted to prove that she could.

So, not knowing if it was the right or the very wrong thing to say, she told him the truth. "Yeah, I would."

He actually seemed surprised. "Why?"

She looked away from him again, back to the stack of papers in front of her. Reaching a hand out to brush her fingertips over the italicized title, she shrugged. There wasn't really a definitive reason that she could put a finger on. It wasn't perfect by any means, she knew he knew that. It needed some work, and she knew he knew that, too.

Even so, she just had a weird little niggle in her stomach. The pleasant kind of stomach twisting. She just had a gut feeling about this particular narrative.

And she told Spike that.

"But you thought the narrative was unfocused," he challenged her. "Said the love story…what was it…gave you the 'wiggins'?"

Buffy made a face at him. "And it _totally_ did. But beneath that it's a good story. It's worth telling. And…" she trailed off, shrugged. "I don't know, I just think with a little help it could be something really great."

Spike considered her for a moment.

Then he leaned forward and folded his arms across the top of his desk and asked, "You feel strongly about that? Like you could defend that view point in front of a board of your peers if you had to?"

Buffy frowned, starting to feel like she knew where this whole thing was going. "I think so."

"Good," he said, grinning broadly at her, dimples showing. "Because you'll be doin' this one on your lonesome."

Buffy just blinked at him. Once. Twice. Wondering if she'd _possibly_ heard him right. Then, "What?"

Spike pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and bit down on it playfully. "Welcome to your Pratt Publishing internship project, Miss Summers."

And with that he leaned fully forward, braced his palms down on top of his desk and pushed himself to his feet.

"Wait," Buffy demanded, uncrossing her legs and placing both heeled feet as flat on the floor as she could. Swiveling in her chair to eye him as he moved around his desk. "Wait, wait. When you say I'll be doing this one _alone_ , you mean…?"

"Copy editing, narrative adjustments, tweaks to the proposal. The whole nine, yeah." He paused at the corner of his desk in his spot and sat down on the edge of it, folding his arms. " _And_ when you're ready, you'll take it to the editorial board."

Oh.

 _Whoa._

"But I don't…I mean, I've never…" She paused and frowned deeply at him, suddenly very wary. "You actually think I'm ready for that?"

"Of course you're not," Spike said off handedly, then tilted his chin down. Lowered his voice. "But you will be."

Wow. He sounded like he really meant that.

"How do you know that?" Buffy asked him, starting to feel equal parts good butterflies and anxious knots battling it out in her stomach. Just the thought of having to stand up at one of those meeting and actually…say something. _Oh, God._ Her eyes shot up to his and she shook her head. _"_ I've never even sat in on one of _your_ editorial boards, Spike, how am I supposed to do one on my own? And copyediting is one thing, but _narrative_ …" Her gaze darted back down to the papers in front of her, reaching for them. She started flipping through them in a rush. "I don't even know where to start."

Spike's hand shot out and covered hers. His palm pressing into the back of her hand, stilling her frantic movements over the manuscript and squeezing her gently.

She turned to look up at him.

"Relax, Buffy," he murmured gently. "I'll be there every step of the way, yeah? There's no rush here." Another light squeeze and then he let go of her hand and shifted backward. "You have a little over four months left in the program, that's more'n enough time to prepare."

That was true. There was plenty of time.

Besides that, he couldn't give her a project this size unless he really thought she could handle it. Right?

The thought had her suddenly frowning. She shifted her eyes once more to the manuscript, then carefully back up to Spike's face. Buffy took a deep breath in and asked, "Are you just giving this to me because of…" She let the notion trail off with a meaningful eyebrow raise, not saying the actual words. Whether because she wasn't sure she wanted to finish it or because she was still halfway convinced his office was secretly bugged, she wasn't sure.

His expression shifted like he already knew what was coming next. He asked anyway. "Because of…what?"

"My decision," she said softly. Spike immediately groaned, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. Buffy added, "I'm just asking."

"I'd be doin' this no matter what _decision_ you'd made, Buffy," he told her sternly, and she believed him. The hard set of his lips and the ticking in his jaw doing more than their fair share to convince her, even though the sheer conviction with which he'd reprimanded her might have been enough on its own. He stared down at her, eyes blazing, and asked, "How many times do I have to say it before you believe me? Work is work. This is me makin' a smart business decision. I told you I was goin' to teach you, and that's what I'm tryin' to do by giving you the opportunity to take a manuscript through from start to finish." He paused then, turning away from her. He placed his palm flat over her copy and began slowly shifting it back across his desk. "But…if you don't want it, just say the word and–"

"No," Buffy said immediately, her own hand flying out to cover his and stop his movement. She turned her head and met his eyes, her voice steady. "No. I want it."

"That's my girl," Spike purred, pulling his hand out from beneath hers. Making sure to brush the pad of his thumb down the line of her index finger as he did. The pet butterflies in her belly spun up, fluttering their wings. The combination of the possessive words and the sneaky hand graze and the twinkle in his eye making her skin feel hot.

Spike knew. He had to. But, as per the "rules", he didn't say anything.

Just leaned back and re-crossed his arms, settling more comfortably onto the edge of his desk and gesturing toward the papers in front of her. "Now then, where do you reckon you should start?"

 ** _-Saturday, July 20th. 1:19pm-_**

Buffy was lounging stomach down on her bed, her brand new pet project spread out in front of her. Armed with her favorite red pen and a strong cup of coffee, she'd set out to get at least the first third of her copy editing done.

What she'd ended up doing was getting about five pages in and then calling her little sister.

She still hadn't told Dawn about Spike. Technically. True, she'd told her that there was a guy. That there was a guy and things were a little bit complicated. That Buffy was crazy school girl crushing on said guy. She'd even gone so far as to tell Dawn that the guy's name was Spike—cue predictable, and highly appropriate, jokes—and then she'd proceeded to tell her the high level, albeit ultra vague, details of what all had been going on.

She'd tell her everything. She totally would.

Someday.

But today wasn't that day. Today was casual, sisterly gossip day.

"Well what did you tell her when she tried to ask you about it?" Buffy mused, drawing a box around the tiny little number six at the bottom corner of her page. She'd put Dawn on speaker in an attempt to at least sort of keep working, but things had gone south into distracto-land when Dawn had begun recounting the harrowing adventures of summer school and college algebra with a professor her sister affectionately referred to as Mussolini.

"What do you think I told her?" Dawn murmured, sighing into the receiver. "I told her I'd had this trip planned for weeks and I wasn't gonna cancel it or put it off just because of her stupid test."

Buffy laughed. "Her stupid test being your…final exam?"

"Yep."

"Dawn," she warned sternly. As sternly as she could while still laughing. "If you have to come visit the first week of September instead of the last week of August that's not a big deal. I don't want you skipping important school stuff for anything, but especially not me."

"Oh relax, it's fine," her little sister promised, chuckling a little herself. "I'm just taking it a week early. Easy."

"Just as long as you aren't…compromising your education." Buffy frowned, wrinkling her nose up. "Or whatever."

A beat passed.

"Wow," Dawn murmured appreciatively.

Buffy smiled in the direction of her phone. "Good, right?"

Her sister agreed. "Very Mom-like."

She laughed lightly into the speaker and dropped her pen down onto her manuscript just as her cell phone buzzed and lit up. She lifted herself up onto her elbows and leaned over, peering down at the new message.

 **Spike. 7/20, 1:23pm.** _What are your plans tonight?_

Cue the goofy smile.

"What?" she asked, having missed whatever question it was Dawn had just asked her in favor of goofy smiling. She typed out her response— _Working on my new project.—_ and hit send.

"Are you avoiding the question?" her little sister pressed, a secretive sounding smile in her voice.

Buffy was staring at her phone. "What question?"

Dawn sighed impatiently. "I asked you if I was going to get to meet your friend Spike when I come visit."

Buffy's cell phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a new text message. She read it once. Twice. Bit down on the pad of her thumb and smiled to herself.

 **Spike. 7/20, 1:26pm.** _Let's try this again. What are your plans tonight?_

"Umm, I don't know, Dawnie," she answered honestly, picking up her phone and rolling over onto her back. "He's…a really busy guy. With a lot on his plate." Like running his family's company. And a non-marriage marriage. _And an affair with me_. "He might not have a whole lot of free time when you're here."

Buffy typed out her reply, chewing on the inside of her cheek. _Working on my new project…at your place._

"Come on, that's so lame," Dawn whined, and she could practically see her stamping her foot impatiently. "I'm your sister, I have a right to meet any and all mystery men." She paused, then added, " _Especially_ ones with freaky biker names."

Buffy's phone buzzed in her hand.

 **Spike. 7/20. 1:30pm**. _Better. I'll see you at 7:00._

Buffy grinned like an idiot, lifting her hand up to press it against her forehead. Happy and butterfly-y in all the right ways, her cheeks got warm. "He doesn't have a freaky biker name," she insisted, laughing. "He has a colorful childhood nickname."

It buzzed again.

 **Spike. 7/20. 1:31pm.** _Come hungry._

 ** _-Saturday, July 20th. 6:53pm-_**

She was early.

She was early. And she was either totally under dressed or totally over dressed, depending on exactly what the night was supposed to be. And because she wasn't one hundred percent sure what tonight was supposed to be, she was anxious.

Not bad anxious, even though she had been a teensy bit paranoid the entire way over that she'd be spotted by someone. But she'd been kind of nervous before that.

She'd been nervous as she'd been getting ready. Nervous still when she'd crawled inside the cab. Even more nervous when she'd gotten out, entered Spike's building, took the elevator up and made the slow walk down the hallway to his door.

Not the bad kind of nervous, either. The good kind.

The best kind.

She was pretty sure this was a date. Maybe not a normal date, as far as dates go…but the closest thing the two of them had ever had to one. It wasn't all one night stand-y like their first night had been, and it wasn't driven by a weird mix of rage and lust like the last couple times she'd shown up at his condo. He'd invited her, she'd accepted, and now…there she was. Happy to be there. Excited to be there.

It had only been a day and a half since the last time Spike had kissed her, but it felt longer. He hadn't even come close to kissing her, or touching her in any slightly less than work appropriate way for that matter, since Thursday morning. Both of them had been extra good, both of them working hard to keep to their rules about work being work…even when it hadn't been all that easy to do.

They'd even consciously agreed not to spend the evening together on Friday in an effort to let things…simmer.

And simmer they had.

Buffy'd be a massive lying liar if she said she wasn't anticipating some quality time with his lips tonight.

Dimly, through the wood of his door, she could hear the steady thrum of jazzy music and over that, the sounds of dishes clinking together. The corners of her lips curving upward in anticipation, she raised her knuckles and tapped on the door.

Spike opened the door with a flourish barely a moment later, holding it wide. Upon seeing her he grinned, his hand gripping the knob and leaning his temple into the edge of the door. Gazing down at her with sparkling eyes, he said, "You're early."

"I'm early," Buffy agreed impishly, that pleasant nervousness swirling in her stomach.

"And don't you look delicious," he murmured, his eyes trailing over her oh so carefully "thrown together" ensemble of white shorts and a hunter green blouse which may or may not have had the slightest plunging neckline.

"I think you mean hungry," she quipped, hiking her bag a little further up onto her shoulder and trying her very, very best not to go all blushy over the way he was staring at her.

If he knew that she knew he was staring, he didn't seem to mind. Just kept his gaze shamelessly riveted to the bared skin of her collarbone and stepped back a little ways from the doorway, gesturing for her to come inside.

Buffy obliged, taking note of his own ultra casual attire—a pair of faded jeans with a tear over the knee on one side and a blue cotton v-neck—as she slid around him and on into the condo. She paused at the edge of the kitchen and inhaled deeply, mouthwatering. She turned to look back at her host as he shut the door. "God, it smells amazing in here."

"It does, doesn't it," he agreed smugly, then chuckled at the face she made at him, brushing past her and moving into his kitchen. He made very sure to place the palm of his hand against the small of her back as he did. "You're just in time, just finished settin' the table."

She turned and glanced toward where he was looking to see that yep, he definitely had set the table. The big wooden coffee table at the center of the living room, to be specific. Two place mats, two napkins, curiously no sign of forks or knives or…any kind of utensils, actually. But there was a big white candle at the center which had been lit, casting that portion of the condo in a flickering glow.

Biting down on her smiling lip, Buffy turned back around to see Spike closing his oven and turning to rinse his hands off in the sink.

"You can set your things down on that chair there if you'd like," he told her, cutting off the faucet and smiling at her like he fully sensed her nerves. Grabbing a bunched up kitchen towel from off the counter beside him, he wiped his hands off and said, "Unless you were plannin' to work through dinner?"

"I wasn't," she promised.

He inhaled, set the towel back down and breathed out a contented, "Good."

Buffy turned back toward the "set" table, crossing the space toward it and sliding her bag o' manuscript down off her shoulder to set it where he'd indicated, on the seat of one of the chairs flanking the coffee table. "Speaking of dinner," she mused, skirting the chair and approaching the opposite side of the kitchen counter from him. She placed her hands on the edge and leaned over to try and get a glimpse over his shoulder of what he was currently plating. "What are we having?"

"Tacos," he said, turning around to face her again, now brandishing two full plates in either hand. Three flour tortillas filled to the top with an incredible smelling combination of meats and spices that had Buffy's mouth watering all over again. Noting the pleased look on her face, Spike smirked and stepped out of the kitchen. "More specifically, roasted pork tacos with pineapple and red onion." He maneuvered his way to the coffee table and set the plates down, dusting his hands off and turning toward her. Suddenly looking hesitant. "Sound alright?"

"It sounds delicious," Buffy told him honestly, looking appreciatively down at the plate he'd set nearest to her. The smell was seriously the stuff of legends, and his plating job was adorably bare bones. She glanced up at him again. "And it looks even better."

Any uncertainty melted off his face and his eyes smoldered at her, voice low. "You impressed?"

"Very."

"Come on then," he urged, sitting down on the edge of his leather couch and motioning for her to sit beside him. "Try one. Wanna see what you think."

Buffy gave him a look, then turned down to her plate. Wrapping the taco up as carefully as she could, trying to keep all the filling full stuffed inside, she raised it to her mouth and took a bite.

Her eyes went instantly wide and she turned back toward Spike.

Not caring how unladylike it might be, she pressed the tips of her fingers to her mouth and murmured, "Oh my God."

He laughed. "Do you like it?"

She nodded, trying not to laugh herself, finished chewing and swallowed.

"It's incredible," she told him, because it really was. Setting the rest of the taco back down onto her plate she wiped her fingers on her napkin. She pointed down to it and asked, "Did you make these?"

Spike paused for a moment before responding, like he needed to think it over. Squinting his eyes at her, pulling the edge of his bottom lip into his mouth and biting down on it. He shook his head.

"Not so much me as the good people at Anna's Taqueria," he admitted, still laughing, looking only a tiny bit sheepish. He reached up and rubbed his thumb over the corner of her mouth, picking up a little of the pork's sauce as he did. He dropped his hand and wiped his thumb on her napkin.

Thoroughly and completely charmed, Buffy laughed with him. "I appreciate the honesty."

"For you?" He asked, his eyes finding a way to be equal bits smiling and serious at once. "Always."

The moment turned serious. Something between the intensity in his gaze and the sincerity in his voice catching her by pleasant and sort of bone-melty surprise. Something about that _always_ feeling weighty, more poignant than an innocuous two syllable word had a right to.

There was a beat between them as they stared at each other, side by side on his couch, before he finally looked away. Cleared his throat and got back up to his feet, asking, "You need somethin' to drink?"

"Mmm, mmhm," she murmured, having just taken another big bite of Tex-Mex perfection. She swallowed in a hurry to answer him. "Diet soda if you have it."

"I have it." He pulled open one side of his stainless steel fridge and Buffy could see from around his shoulder that he did indeed have it. Her favorite, in fact. A whole fresh pack of it. "Glass or can?"

"Can's fine," she said, feeling a little blush creep into her cheeks when he turned toward her again, wiping her hands and mouth on her napkin.

"You're gettin' a glass anyway, since we're doin' this right and proper," Spike told her plainly, setting the can he'd procured for her down on the counter top and turning back around to reach into a top cabinet; pull her down a tall glass. He only took his attention off his task long enough to look up and toss her playful wink as he poured the soda into the glass, then meandered his way back to the couch.

He reached down and handed it to her, drawling, "For the lady."

"My hero," she drawled back, taking it from him, her eyes following his movements around to the other side of the couch.

They ate in silence for a little while. A different silence than the comfortable one they'd been working with at the office over the past couple days, but not _not_ comfortable either. She was still slightly more nervous than she thought she should be, and she could sort of feel from him that he might be just a tiny bit on edge as well.

Which was weird and wig worthy on an entirely different level for the two of them if she was honest. Their experiences together had run the gamut of emotions, sure, but awkward…Buffy wasn't sure that had ever been included in the mix. But they were treading new ground now. They'd gone from the one night stand that wasn't to employer and employee to the mentoring thing and the confusing sexual tension thing and now…now, they were trying something different. Unprecedented. A relationship that wasn't a relationship and an affair that wasn't an affair and…well, still with the confusing sexual tension.

It was just the good kind now.

"So," Spike finally said, his voice cutting over the low jazz record and tossing his napkin down onto his empty plate. He angled his body toward hers.

"So," Buffy mimicked, folding her napkin up and resting it on top of her knee.

Another long beat.

"I'm bloody terrible at this," he groaned, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling before shifting his gaze back to hers. He smirked sardonically, perked his scarred brow. "You know how long it's been since I've been on a date?"

 _At least twelve years, but possibly more._

Buffy bit her lip and ducked her gaze. "This is a date then?"

"Well I…yeah." Spike sighed, chuckling at himself. "I thought so. Know things between us haven't been the most traditional by any stretch. Been doin' things right bloody backward from word go." He paused like he was thinking, just for a second, before finding Buffy's eyes with his again. "But I wanted to have a proper date with you."

She kissed him.

Grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him against her, claiming his lips. She kissed him deeply, all slightly parted lips and the gentle pressure. No tongue, but it didn't need it. It was sweet and sincere and soft and felt like _something_.

"Sorry," she whispered, not sounding very sorry at all as she pulled back just enough to see his eyes. The tip of her nose brushed over his. "Couldn't resist."

"Why bother?" Spike asked her huskily, his hand winding its way through the hair at the nape of her neck. "I don't even try anymore."

He kissed her.

Just as deeply, if not more soundly. His kiss did have tongue, which she definitely didn't mind. Especially when he did that thing where he ran it over the seam of her lips and forced her to open up for him. They did that for a little while. Just kissed. Slow and full, sitting side by side on his couch, knees touching.

When he eventually pulled away from her, her head was light, faint. Delightfully spinny.

"So," Spike mused, drawing the word out. His lashes swept up and his eyes met hers. "How set were you on gettin' some work done tonight?"

"Pretty set," she told him, leaning forward to press a peck to his lips.

He smiled against her mouth, dropped his hands to her waist. "That right."

"It's a big manuscript," Buffy murmured, nodding. "Lots of pages to get through. Lots and lots of…words."

"I see." Spike shifted back into the edge of the leather couch, pulling her with him. Tugging her up and over until she was straddling his lap. Voice honeyed, he asked, "You reckon I could persuade you to put it off for just one night?"

Buffy pretended to think about the question, turning her eyes up to the ceiling and pursing her lips even as she wound her arms around his neck. Then she shifted forward, looked down into his face and answered, "I think you can try."

Snickering, he stroked his fingers along the back edge of her waistband and cocked his head to the side. "I think I'll enjoy that."

 ** _-Tuesday, July 23rd. 3:03pm-_**

Buffy was stewing. She was, she _knew_ she was, but not a lot.

Just a little.

Elbows on the desk, one hand propping her chin up and the other tapping a rapid rhythm on the top of her manuscript with the bottom of her red pen. Reading and re-reading the same single run-on sentence over and over again until she felt like her eyes were going to cross. Hashing and re-hashing the very tail end of the conversation she'd had earlier with Cordelia and Xander.

Cordelia, predictably, was under the impression that Spike was working Buffy too hard in giving her such a massive assignment. Buffy had insisted repeatedly that she didn't mind, because, well…she didn't. At all. Cordelia and Xander, both looking a lot like they hadn't believed her one bit, had simply nodded their heads and mentioned that'd it be really good for Buffy to get a break from him and the workload for the rest of the week.

To which Buffy had balked and immediately asked what they meant.

Cordelia had frowned, shared a look with Xander and said, _"_ _Mr. Pratt's out for the rest of the week at a conference in New York. He didn't tell you?"_

No.

He sure didn't.

"I tell you yet today how pretty you are?" Spike asked her now, not looking up from  
the work he was doing, whatever it was. Buffy hadn't really been paying attention when he'd explained to her what it was exactly. She'd been too busy stewing, trying to figure out whether or not she was within her rights to bring up the big, glaring fact that he was getting ready to leave town and hadn't bothered to mention it to her once.

It wasn't like he hadn't had plenty of chances.

"No," she said flatly, tap-tap-tapping her pen one last time before setting it down and  
staring across at him. "You also didn't tell me you were going out of town."

His eyes drifted up to hers. "Cordelia fill you in?"

"Cordelia filled me in," Buffy repeated, pushing her crimson marked manuscript away from herself.

Spike frowned, the movements of his left hand stopping completely. "Right," he said slowly, setting his pen down as his eyes narrowed. "I can tell by the sound of your voice that I've done somethin' wrong, I'm just not sure what exactly."

Buffy's eyebrow shot up to her hairline, eyes wide, lashes fluttering. Like he _really_ didn't know? "How about you're leaving town and I had to find out from Cordelia."

Spike's expression shifted, looking immediately, and satisfyingly, chastened. Then he nodded and glanced away from her. Sighed, "I should've told you sooner."

Buffy looked at him for a moment and felt herself softening, her eyes drinking in the angled planes of his face. She felt better.

But she still had to ask, "Then why didn't you?"

"Because," he said, drawing the word out, tilting his head to the side, "up until about an hour ago I was still tryin' to see if I could get out of goin' to this bloody thing all together."

She blinked at him. Oh.

Buffy pressed her lips together and wrinkled her nose up. Then, quietly, "No luck?"

Spike chuckled deprecatingly and deadpanned, "What gave it away."

"That little muscle in your jaw doing its clenching thing did the trick," she told him cheekily, watching as his eyes drifted back up to hers and she offered him a small smile. Spike inhaled and sighed, and then he smiled at her.

But a second later the smile melted away and he groaned loudly, leaning into his wing back chair and letting his head loll against the back of it. "Bloody hell, I don't wanna go. Not _now_." He dropped his head down again, reaching up to rub the back of his neck with his hand. "Guess it's only for a few days."

Buffy chewed the inside of her cheek. "How many days is a few?"

"I'll be back Sunday afternoon," he answered simply, then, upon noticing the unchecked  
and slightly stricken expression on Buffy's face, he paused. Sensing a dynamic change, or an opportunity, Spike shifted in his chair. Eyes darkening a little, he leaned forward to press his elbows onto the desk; laced his fingers together and propped his chin on top of them. "You gonna miss me, pet?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that," she told him wryly, not willing to give into the sinful expression on his face. And still feeling a little slighted he hadn't thought to mention the trip to her sooner. She flipped the page on her manuscript and picked up her red pen again.

His eyes were on her. "You're upset."

"No," Buffy said, looking away from him. She poised her pen over the same sentence from earlier and tried reading it again. "No, I'm..." Then she sighed, giving up again and meeting his gaze. "Maybe."

He was delighted.

He didn't even try to hide it. Which, yeah, under any normal circumstances _might_ have irritated her. A lot. But right now, coming from Spike, the way his eyes were all twinkly and bright and blue…she kind of didn't mind.

Pulling his chin off his entwined fingers he asked, "That I'm leavin' for four days or that I didn't tell you about it?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation, drawing a surprised and not entirely displeased smile from her boss.

"'M sorry I didn't tell you," he said softly, voice purring and low. He gazed at her steadily, his eyes scanning a pattern over the lines of her face. "Apart from not bein' certain I was even still gonna have to go, I just haven't been thinkin' a whole lot about it. Other things on my mind this week, yeah? But it's only four days," he said again, more for her benefit than for his this time. "Not forever."

True. Oh, so true.

Stupid logic.

"Yeah, no," she agreed, feeling a little silly for being so disappointed. It was only four days. Four days was nothing. She'd gone plenty of…sets of four days without seeing Spike before now, she could totally do it again. She just wasn't _happy_ about doing it. "I know. It's just...with this weekend. And the you and the me and the shiny new 'us' thing." Cue the pleasant beating of butterfly wings in her stomach at the thought. She cleared her throat and swallowed, ducking her gaze from the laser-like focus of his. "I guess I just thought...well, I don't know what I thought."

Spike reached to pick up his own pen again and turned his attention to the task he'd been working on before. Chuckling softly, and a little at her expense, he asked, "You have big plans for us this weekend, luv?"

No.

 _Not exactly._

Buffy doodled a little heart in the margin of page 87, drawing over and over it until the light red pen was pressing a deep crimson tear through the paper. Then, releasing her bottom lip from her teeth, she looked up and asked, "If I said yes?"

His eyes shot immediately back to hers, wide now. Sinfully long lashes fluttering against perfect cheekbones as he stared at her. She'd done it again. That whole catching him by surprise thing. God, she really, _really_ liked doing that.

"Bloody hell," he breathed, inhaling deeply through his nose. "That's more convincin' than I thought."

She resisted the urge to smile at him like an idiot, forced herself to simply quirk a brow instead. "I haven't even said anything yet."

"Mmm," he rumbled, now full on Spike smoldering at her. He looked like he wanted to get  
to his feet and come prowling around the edge of the mahogany toward her. Or maybe just launch himself across the top of the desk and tackle her to the ground, full-tilt animal kingdom. "I don't have to. The thought alone is... _unbelievably_ tempting." His eyes raked slowly over her, and Buffy felt it down to the very tips of her toes. Every inch of it. Each sensual sweep of his lashes and dip of his gaze sunk into her skin. Tingled down her spine. Burrowed down somewhere deep inside of her, housing itself in a place she'd only begun to understand.

Then a moment later it was over as he tore his gaze away from hers, the tension still bright and electric between them even as he did.

"But 'm afraid I do in fact have to go," he sighed, pursing his lips and hollowing his cheeks. "Had this on the books since well before I met you. We go every year."

A little alarm bell dinged in her head.

"We?" she asked.

"Henry and I."

The alarm bell cut off. She'd figured as much. Or figured at least that the "we" wouldn't exactly be the "we" she was thinking it'd be.

Even so, she was still a little relieved.

Tapping the end of her pen against his desk top she ventured, "When are you leaving?"

"Tonight," he said softly, scanning her face. "Our flight leaves at 6:15."

That was…soon. Like, three hours soon.

"Tonight," she echoed.

"And before you ask, I dunno kitten. Whether I'll talk to him about Cecily or not. Not sure whether or not a business trip's the best time to pull the real father/son bondin' shtick, though." He sighed, a deep exhale out his nose. "But if the opportunity presents itself...then maybe."

She _had_ been thinking that exact thing, had been actively trying to decide whether or not it was her place or her right or her anything to ask him whether he planned to have the big marriage talk with Henry or not. She had no idea, not a single freaking one, how he did that. Read her mind. Did she just have one of those faces? A _hey, look at me, you can read my each and every thought just by looking at my face_ face? Or was that just him. Another Spike thing. God, he had so many _things_. And she kind of liked all of them.

Even the ones she didn't.

"I thought maybe wasn't an answer," she teased him.

"It is when you haven't really asked a question," he teased her back. Then, getting to his feet, he circled around and came to a stop when he was standing directly in front of her. "So...back to the more pressin' issue at hand." Cocked his head to the side and smirked. "Are you gonna miss me?"

Buffy flipped her manuscript shut with a snap and pulled it off the desk, tucked her red pen up behind her ear. "Nope."

"Mmhm," he purred, looking like he didn't believe her for one second.

Rightfully so.

"Totally won't," she sing-songed at him, grabbing her bag up off the ground and getting to her feet. She put her manuscript inside and slipped the red pen from behind her ear, dropping it in too.

Spike frowned at her, leaning back against the edge of his desk. He crossed his arms, asking with mock seriousness, "And just where do you think you're off to?"

"Lowly intern meeting at 3:30," she said. "We're...touring marketing or something, I don't know. I'll be out the rest of the afternoon." He frowned more deeply and she rolled her eyes. "You knew that."

"Knew there was a meeting, maybe," Spike said petulantly, watching Buffy continue to gather her things. He shifted out of her way so she could slip her laptop inside its case and zip it up. "Didn't know you'd be goin' to it."

"I'm still a lowly intern," she reminded him, stuffing the in-case computer into her bag. "Just because I'm _your_ lowly intern doesn't mean I'm excused from the rank and file." She laughed at his serious expression, hoisting her bag up onto her shoulder. "I do still have to go to these things."

"Not if I write you a note."

"What are you, my father?" She held her palm up toward him with a shake of her head. "I'm just gonna stop you right there."

Chuckling at her, Spike leveraged himself up off the edge of his desk and walked toward her. Slipping his left hand into the pocket of his dress pants, he asked, "Are you still put out with me?"

"A little," she told him truthfully. Then, a slow, secretive smile curved the corner of her mouth. "But I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me when you get back."

She watched his eyes flash and darken. His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. And even though his jaw clenched and his muscles all visibly tensed up, he didn't approach her. Instead, keeping his voice cool and casual—which somehow only made his next words seem even more explicit than they already were—he said, "Skip out on your silly intern meeting and I'll make it up to you right bloody now."

There were plenty of things she could say to him. That that wasn't an option. That it would let him off the hook way too easily. That it would be completely against the rules. That there was no way she was going to deprive herself of spending every second of the next four days imagining in very graphic detail exactly how he'd have to make it up to her.

Instead, she smiled overly sweetly at him and said, "Have a safe trip, Mr. Pratt."

And with that she turned on her heel and crossed the Persian rug, only adding the second part in her head after she'd slipped out the office door.

 _I'll miss you._

 ** _-Thursday, July 25th. 10:32pm-_**

Buffy was surprised by how long her days at work felt when she wasn't working with Spike. She was surprised by how little work actually seemed to get done when his employees knew he wasn't in the office. Or the state. She was surprised that Cordelia hadn't physically wrestled her own workload out of her hands and hidden it from her yet by means of forcing her into that "break" she'd mentioned before.

What she wasn't surprised by was how thrilled she was when his name lit up her ringing phone's screen.

It wasn't that she hadn't heard from him. She had. He'd sent plenty of work e-mails her way, all totally chaste and completely appropriate and not news worthy at all.

He'd also sent texts, which were the opposite of the e-mails.

But he hadn't called her. And she hadn't called him. Not for lack of wanting to, but more for want of not bugging him. And since, up until now, he _hadn't_ called her she figured that had been the right decision on her part.

Setting her pen down, settling back into the couch throw pillows behind her, she swiped her finger across the screen and answered with what she hoped was a casual sounding hello.

"Hey, pet."

 _Hey, butterflies._ "Hi."

She heard him inhale. Exhale. Then, "Do you miss me yet?"

 _Yes._ "You've been gone?"

"Cheeky minx," he murmured, unruffled. "Where are you?"

"My apartment," she said, stretching her legs out in front of her.

Where did he think she'd be at 10:30 on a Thursday night?

"And what might you be up to?" he asked, sounding decidedly naked.

Or so she was picturing.

"I…" Buffy started tracing absent patterns on the curve of her knee. "…was reading."

"Bloody hell, Buffy," Spike laughed, and she could just picture him doing it. Head tipped back, eyes closed.

Smiling at the sound, she asked, "What?"

He laughed a little more, then quieted. His voice rumbling and low in her ear. "Not even gonna pretend to play along?"

Buffy frowned. Play along? "You asked what I was doing," she told him, brow raised. "I'm reading. As a matter of fact, I'm _working_."

He started chuckling again. "You're adorable."

"You're laughing at me."

"You told me you were _reading_." Like that completely justified his continued giggle fest.

"Because I _was_ ," Buffy insisted, smiling into the phone as she sunk deeper into the pillows.

"Mmhm," he rumbled at her, sounding like he was getting settled himself. She thought she could hear the rustling of fabric on fabric, she was picturing white hotel sheets, and then he sighed. "And if I asked what you were wearin', you'd say…?"

 _Oh._

"Oh."

"So," he said slowly, drawing the word out. "What are you wearin'?"

Buffy shifted a little on the couch, glancing down at the non-descript tank top and lounge shorts PJ combo she had going. Pinching some of the loose cotton fabric of her top she asked, "What am I actually wearing or what am I wearing in your fantasy?"

"What d'you think?"

Buffy let go of the tank top fabric. "I'll give you three guesses."

"Only need one, it bein' my fantasy and all," Spike told her smugly, the hint of a smirk in his low, rumbling voice.

"Fine," she said, shivering as her bare skin prickled over in goosebumps. "Then I'll give you one."

A beat passed.

Then, sounding ultra confident, he said, "Pajamas."

It was Buffy's turn to laugh. "I thought this was your fantasy of what I'm wearing, not what I'm very much _actually_ wearing."

"Don't get your knickers twisted, I'm gettin' there," he scolded her, voice mockingly stern. Then he cleared his throat and continued. Slowly. "Pajamas. Same ones you were wearin' the night we had our campfire chat."

She guessed that to mean the ones she was wearing the night of the power outage. "And where am I while wearing my ratty college t-shirt and plaid boxer shorts?"

"Right here, in the hotel room with me." There was another rustling sound, and Buffy could imagine him shifting onto his side in the massive hotel room bed he was probably sprawled out in. "Right beside me, to be exact. Eatin' popcorn or paintin' your toenails or...whatever you'd be doin' on a regular Thursday night."

"So...reading."

"Fine," he groaned, but it was light and good natured. "Reading. But you're reading on the bed next to me." He got quiet then, like he was thinking about what all he was envisioning before telling her about it. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped down low. "Manuscript pages scattered round you, hair pinned up and those ridiculous glasses on your nose. Maybe a little pen smudge on your cheek."

It was so…tame. Totally chaste and adorable and a little bit goofy and he was making her all gooey. Perfectly gooey.

Grinning, she said, "This is a weird fantasy."

"That's because you haven't let me get to the part where I ravish you on top of the scattered pages," Spike hummed seductively.

Buffy swallowed and squeezed her legs compulsively together, getting a particularly clear visual in her head of just what his fantasy entailed. "Maybe not so weird."

He chuckled again. Stopped. Sighed. "I miss you."

She wasn't sure why she hesitated before responding.

Why it took her longer than the needed 0.2 seconds for her brain to catch up with the question and subsequently respond with a resounding _I miss you too_ before she could form the words. She didn't get a chance to say them anyway because Spike was already clearing his throat and moving on, like he was thinking maybe he'd given away more than he'd meant to in that single three word sentence.

"So," he mused brusquely, the sheet shifting sound happening again. "How is my little mouse? You been playin' since I've been away?"

Deciding to let the missed "I miss you" moment go for the time being, she settled in for the rest of the conversation.

"You're the cat in this scenario?" she asked, the absent patterns she'd been drawing on her knee somehow morphing into a constant, repeated symbol.

A capital S.

She could hear the wolfish grin in his voice. "Only in this one, kitten."

"All work, zero play," she told him truthfully, scraping the tip of her pinky nail down her thigh. "How's the vacation?"

"Presenting at a conference where the attendees are more interested in the free food and stale coffee than anythin' I have to say hardly counts as a vacation. Now where was I…"

Buffy sat straight up. "You're presenting at the conference?"

It was quiet on the other end of the line for a minute. Then he asked, "Did I not mention that bit?"

"Uh, no. Pretty sure that part slipped your mind." Sitting up straighter, Buffy tucked her legs into a criss-cross position beneath her. "You're _presenting_ at the APA conference?"

"You sound surprised."

Surprised? No. Not so much. She wasn't surprised to hear that he was presenting at the largest publishing conference in the country. She was impressed.

Like...majorly impressed.

She shook her head, torn between being enthralled and just a little annoyed. "I can't believe you didn't tell me about this."

"It's no big deal. luv." But he sounded glad that she was excited about it.

"It's a huge deal, Spike," she countered flatly, hungry now for more details. "Is somebody going to record your presentation?"

There was another long pause on the other end. Then, absolutely no trace of the smugness she'd heard earlier, he asked, "You wanna see it?"

"Does Dickens like his run-on sentences?"

"Sod the conference," he growled huskily into the phone. "I'm hoppin' a plane back to you right bleeding now."

She chuckled at him but felt her chest and cheeks flooding with heat. "What time is your presentation?"

"Uh, hang on." More rustling on his end. "Don't know where I put the buggering...ah, here. 8:30."

"Then you have to get some rest," she told him sternly.

"It's hardly _rest worthy_ , luv. Sounds grander than it is, anyway. A few lines here and there about the history of the company, the value of hard work, a quick how-to on rebuilding a dying brand, blah, blah. It's all incredibly boring." But it didn't sound boring to Buffy at all. "Besides that, I'm not tired. Hard to be tired when I'm sittin' here with a head full of slippery, naked Buffy."

She frowned into the receiver, brow furrowing. "Slippery?"

"From the baby oil." He said it like she should obviously already know.

"I thought I was wearing PJs," she countered.

"Are you tellin' this story or am I?"

Biting into her bottom lip, smiling, Buffy uncrossed her legs and settled back into the couch cushions. "Go ahead."

 ** _-Saturday, July 27th. 7:35pm-_**

The rest of the week had dragged for Buffy.

More so than usual.

It had been a really long time since she'd felt that familiar and long forgotten sense of impending excitement about something. The last time she remembered looking forward to something the way she'd begun looking forward to Sunday evening was…well, she wasn't even sure. Her twenty-first birthday maybe. Or Christmas when she was six.

Spike was the purple and pink Schwinn bicycle. She could think of a couple different places to put the big red bow.

God, he was turning her into such a horn-dog.

The he in question had been booked solid through the last couple days in New York so she hadn't spoken to him since falling asleep on the phone with him Thursday night. There'd been a conspicuous lack of work e-mails on Friday, and a lack of any communication whatsoever throughout the morning and afternoon today. In an effort to take her mind off things, and to stop her from spontaneously combusting, Faith had forced Buffy agree to go with her to a coworker's birthday party instead of sitting around the apartment by herself waiting for the phone to ring.

After a good deal of whining from the brunette, Buffy'd promised that she would. And after a quick trip through Buffy's closet, during which Faith had concluded that she had absolutely no clothing suitable to an authentic night out in Boston, she'd agreed to let Faith loan her something.

Thus, she found herself standing in front of her bathroom mirror doing some last minute touch ups. Smoothing her hair down, using a Q-tip to try and take a little of the too-heavy black liner off from beneath her lower lashes—that was the last time she agreed to let Faith give her a "smokey eye"—and adjusting and readjusting the borrowed long sleeve dress. It had looked harmless enough on the hanger. Simple, black, deceptively cotton-like material….which maybe should have been a red flag in and of itself, considering it was the only thing in Faith's closet that wasn't either made of leather or more _barely_ than _there_.

What the dress lacked in closet Dominatrix and cleavage showing it more than made up for in length. Or lack thereof.

And try as Buffy might to tug it down further down her legs, there was no getting around the fact that it was just too short.

And slightly too tight.

Another thing Buffy should have figured out when Faith had said dismissively that she hadn't worn it in years.

She'd just about given up on the dress, was just about to throw the black-stained Q-tip into the sink and go tell Faith the too-tight, too-short dress was gonna be a no-go for her, when she spotted the very obvious section of her leg she'd obviously missed while shaving.

"Perfect," she muttered, tossing the Q-tip into the sink and frowning down at the offending stretch of skin.

Sighing, annoyed now by the dress and the makeup and the going out and the missing her boss, the whole stinking situation, she sat down on the closed lid of her toilet and grabbed up her razor off the edge of the tub.

She'd just finished lathering the entire lower section of her left leg in shaving cream when she heard the squeak of her bedroom door opening. Figuring it was her roommate coming to check on her super slow progress, Buffy opened her mouth and called out to the other girl through the shut bathroom door, "I'll be ready in a minute." She leaned forward and started running the blade up her leg. "Just had a little shaving mishap."

From the opposite side of the door she heard a low, rumbling chuckle. Then, "Not the eyebrows I hope."

Her eyes went wide.

"Spike?" She whipped her head toward the sound of his voice, then down to her very foamy leg. "Surprised?" Spike asked, his voice coming through a little clearer now. He must have stepped closer to the bathroom door.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him, turning her attention back to her shaving. In a huge hurry now.

"Surprisin' you. Look, much as I'd like to keep shoutin' at you through the wood, I'd much rather see your pretty face." He knocked on the door once. "Can I come in?"

"No," she said urgently, running the blade up and over her leg, trying to find the missed spots as quickly as she could without nicking herself in the process. "Um, not yet. You said your flight wasn't getting in until tomorrow night." God, how long did it take to actually _shave_ her leg? She didn't remember it taking years.

"Yeah, well...change of plans." His voice got a little farther away, like he was standing back a ways from the door. Maybe next to her dresser, looking at her photos. "Hope you don't mind me showin' up like this. Faith let me in, said just to head on back." A pause, like he was thinking about something he hadn't considered. "Not interruptin' anything am I?"

"Uh, no. No...I'm just..." She trailed off, biting into her lip as she skimmed the blade along the back of her calf. She was moving as fast as humanly possible without slicing her ankle up. "One second."

"Take your time, pet," he said breezily. "Not like I just hopped a plane and flew back a day early just to see you."

Buffy couldn't help the eye roll. Or the heat rushing to her cheeks.

"One _second_ ," she called out, half laughing now. Giddy as she finally finished. She tossed her razor onto the side of the tub and jumped to her feet, snapping up a towel to run it over her leg and clean the excess foam off. Tossing it haphazardly into the tub, she scrambled to unlock the bathroom door, twist the knob and throw it open.

His back was to her, but he turned automatically at the sound of the door creaking open, revealing himself to her in all of his business casual glory. Light grey dress pants and a basic all black button up, striped silver tie undone and still hanging around his neck. He was still holding onto a small suitcase in one hand and had a black trench coat folded over his arm, the crease in his pants indicating he was still a little travel rumpled.

He looked like he'd just come directly from the airport.

Far from the explosive mini-reunion she'd been anticipating, things between them grew very still. Quiet. With the sounds of Faith's thrumming bass-heavy music filtering in through their shared wall, they just stared at each other for a minute. Buffy stood very still in her bathroom doorway, watching the expression on his face shift from something that might have been relieved, to contented. Finally, to hungry. Then he bent to set the suitcase on the ground, tossed his coat onto her bed and inhaled deeply.

"I like your dress."

 _I like your face._ Her cheeks were getting hot. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he said, then started to approach her slowly. Every inch the cat to her mouse as he lowered his voice and commanded, "Now take it off."

Tingles. Everywhere.

Tilting her head to the side, eyeing him through her lashes as he crossed her bedroom toward her, she resisted the urge to leap into his arms. Instead, she smiled coquettishly and murmured, "You just said you liked it."

Spike just nodded, his lips curving up, expression shifting into a pretty good approximation of the Big Bad Wolf.

"Ah, but you didn't let me finish. I'd like your dress…in a puddle on the floor." He stepped into her space and cocked his head to the side, eyes sparkling. "There."

"Does that track in your mind ever get lonely all by itself?" Buffy asked, eyeing him through her lashes, tipping her chin back as he came nearly nose to nose with her.

He smelled good.

He always smelled so _stupid_ good.

"I'm only joking, pet," he said. Then he paused, reconsidered. "Well...half joking, anyway. Know you have big plans tonight. Faith told me all about her little mate's birthday party or what all," he muttered like it sounded boring, waving his hand to the side. "Just wanted to come by. See you." His eyes darkened predatorily. "Say hello."

Buffy's brow shot up at that. "Say…hello."

"Yeah, well," Spike said, his eyes glittering down at her. "Figured it was only polite."

And then he slid his hand around to the back of her neck and pulled her into him; covered her mouth with his. Buffy melted into him, a tiny mewing sound escaping her lips as her hands found both ends of his untied tie, twisted them around her fingers. Tugged. He groaned into her mouth and hauled her closer, inhaled, threaded his fingers deeper into her hair. He packed four days' worth of crackling tension, unrestrained longing and bright, white hot desire into the movements of his mouth. The way he cradled the back of her head. The way he swept his tongue over hers, tasting like cigarette smoke and the slightly sweet tang of whiskey that told her he'd probably had a drink on the plane.

 _Best hello ever._

When they finally separated they were breathless, chest's heaving in a matching rhythm. Buffy's lashes fluttered and she opened her eyes. Cleared her throat. "That's, umm..." she blinked a few times, tingling lips curving upward. "I don't think anyone's ever said hello to me like that."

"That's how the French do it," he told her in a low purr, his fingers twisting into her hair. "And this," he used his grip in her hair to slowly pull her head to the side, baring the curve of her throat to him, "is how the Italians do it."

He open mouth kissed her neck.

Her breath caught halfway down to her lungs.

"And the Spanish?" she asked, hands tightening their hold on the sides of his tie in an attempt to keep his mouth fastened to her throat, to keep it doing all the bone-melty things it was doing.

He chuckled into her neck and slid his palm over her thigh, under the hem of her dress, then around to grip the apple of her ass. Squeezing her once, lips at her ear, he whispered, "Like this."

Then he slipped his hand under the back of her thigh and hitched her leg up over his hip.

 _Oh._

She knew she always liked the Spanish.

Flush up against him, chest to chest and pelvis to pelvis, Buffy inhaled the scent of him into her lungs. Turned her head to the side so she could see his face. Her eyes bright and glazed with lust, she whispered, "English?"

His eyes flashed eagerly.

"Oh, little innocent Buffy..." Spike trailed off, shifting them around so her butt was pressing into the edge of her mattress. Lifted her up and set her down on top of it. Gave her a very cat-like smirk and said, "I'm not sure you're ready for an English hello."

Funnily enough, the way he said it made her feel like maybe she really _wasn't_. And the look on his face didn't do a whole lot to convince her otherwise. But she wanted to finish out her tour of European greetings.

 _Really_ badly.

So she said, "Try me."

They must have been the magic words because he did his Big Bad Wolf impersonation again and leaned forward, kissing her, bending her backward until she was pressed down into her bed.

And then he stood back up, promptly sunk to his knees in front of her and asked, "What time's your party?"

He settled himself between her legs. Placed his hands on her knees. Pushed them apart.

This was new. Not what she'd been expecting. She let out an involuntary and strangled cry when he slide his hands up her legs, shoving the hem of her skirt up around her hips.

What had he been asking? Something…about something. The party. The time of the party.

"8:00," Buffy said breathlessly, not absolutely sure if that was right or not.

"So you need to be headed that way...?" He nipped at the juncture of her hip with a growl and she moaned his name, straining her hips toward him. He yanked her thong aside. Slid two fingers up. In.

" _Oh_." Her eyes flew open. Then somehow remembered he'd asked her a question and gasped, "S-soon."

"You have five minutes then," he murmured into the skin of her inner thigh, taking a section of smooth flesh between his teeth and laving it with his tongue. "Or all night, things go my way."

Buffy shivered.

She was dizzy. Delirious. Writhing on the bed beneath his expert hands and his perfect fingers, arching her hips toward him even as she shook her head in protest. Eyes falling shut once more, she panted and protested weakly, "I promised Faith I'd go."

"Don't rightly care."

 _Good,_ she thought, hoping he could read her mind because she couldn't quite speak.

"Fuck, I missed you," Spike breathed, sounding perfect and aching and desperate, hooking his free hand underneath her to pull her closer to the edge of the mattress. He twisted his fingers around and stroked her from a different angle, causing her to arch her back wildly and cry out. He was…oh, God, with the…good.

 _Such_ good fingers.

 _Still._

Faith. She'd promised Faith.

Weakly, Buffy managed to push herself up onto her elbows, blinking bleary, lust dazed eyes down at the man between her legs. "But—"

Parting with the flesh of her inner thigh on a growl, not bothering to still the rhythm of his fingers, he tipped his head back and met her eyes with his darker ones. "It's been a bloody week since I've been able to touch you like this, pet. A week." Hands gripping her tightly, he cocked his head to the side and raised his brows. "You wanna spend the five minutes you do have prattling on about bein' late or are you gonna shut your pretty mouth and come on my tongue?"

Oh.

 _God_.

With a loud, desperate groan, Buffy fisted her hands in his hair and tugged him back toward her.

It only took him two of the five minutes to finish his English hello.

They spent the last three entwined on her bed, fully clothed, making out like teenagers.

And when Faith banged on Buffy's door to let her know she was leaving, and also to let her know she _totally_ understood and that she'd just see her in the morning, Buffy was a little preoccupied with mind blowing kisses and big, strong hands that seemed to be everywhere she wanted them at once.

She was thinking of all the different ways she'd have to make skipping out up to her roommate as Spike pinned her down to the mattress and began the process of making his leaving up to her.


	17. Chapter 17

**_-Sunday, July 28th. 10:53am-_**

Buffy was blissed out.

It was the phrase she'd finally settled on earlier in the morning when she'd slipped out of bed, out of her bedroom, and ventured out to the kitchen to have a little alone time with her fogged out brain.

It was the phrase she was still going with now, sitting on her couch, cup of coffee cradled in her hands. She was on her third one. Not that she needed it to wake up. She'd been awake for hours. Spike had made sure of that when he'd woken her up an hour or so earlier with a very specific combination of his fingers and his tongue that just might have been the single most incredible way to wake up in the history of ever.

Then he'd whispered a low good morning in her ear, kissed her cheek lazily and promptly fallen back asleep.

She was pretty sure she was still blushing.

She knew for sure she was still smiling when she heard the creak of a door from behind her, glancing over her shoulder in time to see her roommate stepping out of her bedroom.

"Up already?" Faith asked on a yawn, padding her way into the kitchen and grabbing a mug from the designated mug cabinet and filling it with coffee.

Buffy watched the brunette finish filling her mug, rubbing her mascara-smeared eyes sleepily as she shuffled toward the couch. Offering the dark haired girl a small smile, she said a bright, "Yep."

The "P" was aggressively popped.

Faith made a face at her, like just the sound of the positive affirmation was a little too loud. Buffy laughed softly and apologized, lowering the tone of her voice considerably.

"Where's your fox?" the brunette asked, looking grateful as she dropped down onto the opposite end of the couch. Folding her legs up beneath herself.

Buffy bit down on her lip and said, "Still sleeping."

Faith grinned over the rim of her coffee cup. "Late night?"

"Sort of," she answered without really answering, being a little unintentionally coy. Grinning again.

It wasn't like her roommate needed her to be all ultra explicit to get the gist of her evening, anyway.

"Al _right_ ," Faith crowed as loudly as she dared, leaning over to playfully elbow her friend in the shoulder. 'Way to go B. Wiped him out, huh?" She perked both brows and curled her tongue suggestively. "Now _that's_ impressive."

She had to admit, it kind of was.

"Was your only purpose in coming out here to mock me?" Buffy asked, saccharine smile spreading over her lips.

"Yup." Faith popped her own "P" as aggressively as Buffy had.

"How was _your_ night last night?" Buffy asked, re-directing the conversation after making a deadpan face at the brunette. She took a sip of her coffee. Fought the urge to smile again.

"I'm gonna guess not nearly as good as yours." Faith reached around her and snapped up the black cotton-like scrap of material that had once been a dress, holding it up and examining it. Eyebrow raised, she glanced toward Buffy and asked, "You wanna tell me what happened to my dress?"

She did the grinning, lip biting thing again. Lowered her voice to admit quietly, "Probably exactly what you think happened to your dress."

The other girl let out a bright peel of pleased laughter, tossing her head back, causing a little coffee to spill over the side of her mug. Buffy was relieved her friend didn't seem to be too upset by the fact that she'd completely ruined the dress she'd borrowed. Well technically _Spike_ had completely ruined the dress she'd borrowed. He'd mumbled something half hearted against her lips about paying for it a half second before practically shredding it from her body…honestly, she hadn't really been paying attention. In fact, she'd almost entirely forgotten about the dress all together until she'd spotted it strewn across her bedroom floor on her way out to the kitchen.

"You know what?" Faith quieted, fixing her friend with a hard stare. She balled the ruined dress up and threw it smack into Buffy's forehead. "I could punch you in the face I'm so insanely jealous right now."

"And you know what?" Buffy asked back, taking the balled up dress in her own hand and folding it awkwardly over her lap. "I'm still so relaxed I don't think I'd even stop you."

"Dirty girl," Faith chuckled, tapping Buffy's knee with her toe. She grinned at her, taking another sip of her coffee. Swallowing. Shaking her head and murmuring, "Man, I am loving this side of you."

"What side of me?" Buffy asked, swallowing her own sip.

"The blissed out from mind blowing sex side of you."

She shook her head even as she grinned again and said, "That's not why I feel like this."

For the first time all morning, Faith frowned. "It's not?"

"No," Buffy said immediately, then paused. Rethought it. Added," I mean, _yeah_ , of course it is. That part's great. That part is…" she trailed off, ducked her gaze into her coffee. Sighed dazedly. "… _completely_ insane. Never felt anything like it, fireworks exploding, toes curling, every muscle in my body turning to jell-o kind of insane."

"God," Faith murmured appreciatively, dropping her mug and her hands down to her lap.

Buffy nodded in quiet agreement with that very appropriate sentiment, turning to stare back toward her closed bedroom door. To the man she knew was still sleeping behind it. Pressing her lips together she inhaled deeply through her nose, exhaled and said, "But it's more than that."

A beat passed.

Then, from the resident peanut gallery, "Who needs more than that?"

Buffy turned her head back around to face her smirking roommate. She tilted her head to the side and told the other girl pointedly, "Spike's a lot more than just a pretty face, Faith."

"I know," the dark haired girl agreed, another wicked smirk curling her lips. "He's a pretty body, too."

 _Oh, boy._

She rolled her eyes and said, "You know what I mean."

Faith furrowed her brow, pursed her lips. "Yeah, but that part's boring."

"Not to me," Buffy argued, smiling softly at her roommate as she raised her mug and took another long sip.

The two girls sat in easy silence for a little while. Buffy, still drinking her coffee. Faith seemingly deep in thought about something. Her eyes kept shifting toward Buffy's, but never quite meeting them.

Buffy was just about to ask what it was she was thinking so hard about when the brunette finally sighed and said, "So you know I have to ask, right?"

Something in Buffy's blissed out brain clicked at that, something in her stomach tightening.

"Ask what?" she asked, frowning.

Faith sighed again, not like she was annoyed but more like she was wondering how Buffy couldn't already _know_. She turned and set her mug down on top of the coffee table, then back to face her friend again. "This thing with Spike. How far does it go?"

Oh.

Yeah, she probably should have figured that was coming. True, she hadn't expected it to come from Faith…but she supposed it had to come from somewhere. And seeing as how Faith was the only person who knew mostly the whole story…well, it was bound to happen eventually. Sooner or later.

She'd just kind of hoped it'd be later. And not when she was still reeling just the tiniest bit from the most recent earth shattering escapade.

So she played dumb. Reaching down to set her mug beside her roommate's she asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean…is it just a casual, nothing serious fling?" Faith asked, dropping one leg down to plant her foot on the floor and twisting around to angle her body more directly toward Buffy's. "You'll both have your fun for the next few months and then go your separate ways like nothing happened. He goes back to playing husband of the year and you move on, no harm done." She paused meaningfully, tilting her head to the side and widening her eyes. Lowering her voice. "Or is this the real deal?"

 _The real deal._

It sounded so dramatic to Buffy. So overblown. So _big_. So…fitting.

Could that be what it was?

She wasn't sure. Not one hundred percent, anyway. But she needed to say something. Or she wanted to say something. And it was a question she wanted to be able to answer. An answer she wanted to know. So she settled on the most truthful statement she could think of.

"I kind of think it might be the second one," Buffy said softly, admitting it to herself for the very first time.

Which felt good. _Really_ good.

And then Faith leaned forward and lowered her voice even further to ask, "Does he feel the same way?"

 ** _-Saturday, July 27th. 10:38pm-_**

"How was the conference?" Buffy asked Spike between fevered kisses, the full expanse of his bare chest brushing tantalizingly across hers.

"Long." He nibbled her ear lobe. "Boring." Nipped at her throat. "Utter waste of time." Ran his tongue along her collarbone.

"Sounds fun," she breathed, dragging her nails lightly over his lower back.

Spike trailed kisses across her clavicle, smiling against her skin as he murmured, "I was brilliant, of course."

She bit her lip, closed her eyes and arched into him when his teeth closed over her pulse point. "Of course."

"How about work here?" Spike asked, the words softly muffled against the other side of her neck that he was now ardently kissing up. "You get lots done without me to distract you?"

"Oh, yeah," Buffy said, craning her head to the side to give him better access. "Tons. It was great."

Lips now at her ear, he whispered huskily, "Watch it now, you'll hurt my feelings."

She laughed in time with him, turning her head back toward him to say something, she wasn't even sure what, but it didn't matter anyway since Spike seemed bound and determined to keep her from saying much of anything at all.

For the third time in the last two hours, he began kissing her like the world was ending. His lips claimed hers over and over again in a frenzy. His tongue playing over hers in perfect, dizzying strokes as his body rocked against hers. He moved with her, over her, inside her. One hand cradling the side of her face, the other hooked beneath her thigh to hike her leg around his waist.

Buffy pulled him against her greedily, both hands gripping his hips for a moment then running up to his shoulders before dragging her nails back down. Gasping into his mouth desperately as he rolled his hips, as he slid a hand between their bodies and pressed the pad of his thumb over her. Moved it in quick, expert circles until every muscle in her body tightened, released, lights and colors exploded behind her eyes.

Perfectly exhausted, she sunk deeper into the mattress, breathing heavily as Spike collapsed on top of her a minute or so later.

He exhaled, long and slow. A contented sigh. Then he shifted back up onto his forearms and kissed her sweat-slicked shoulder.

The bared curve of her neck.

The underside of her jaw.

And then Buffy breathed, "I missed you."

Spike stopped, freezing in place. He went stone still, his lips pressed firmly to the arc of her jaw. A beat. Then he relaxed and chuckled, kissing her there once more before leveraging himself up and over so he could look down into her face.

"And she _finally_ admits it," he rumbled, tilting his head to the side. Eyes glittering in the darkness. "Took you bloody long enough."

She fixed him with a meaningful look, pulling one hand off his hip to slide it up over his shoulder. "Like you needed me to say it out loud to know."

"Needed? No. Wanted?" Spike smirked down at her. "Well, that's an entirely different question."

Her hand found the soft curls at the nape of his neck, twisted one around her finger as she murmured, "Greedy."

" _Needy_ you mean," he corrected her, pausing to roll his eyes up to the ceiling. "Right pathetic, I am." He exhaled again, dropped his eyes back down to her face. She saw them soften as he gazed at her, smiled and said, "Worth it when you look at me like that, though."

"Like what?" Buffy asked. She hadn't realized she was looking at him any specific, special way.

He narrowed his eyes. "Like you really did miss me."

"I did," she told him without thinking, not missing the way his eyes glittered even more brightly as she did. Which gave her the little push she needed to admit softly, "A lot, actually. More…than I expected."

A silent beat.

"It really that hard for you to admit?" Spike asked her, not entirely unhappily.

Buffy slid her hand down away from his neck, back to his shoulder.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not big on being vulnerable," she murmured, shifting her eyes away from his. Focused her gaze on the flexing muscle of his bicep.

Spike shifted further, lifting himself up onto his hands. "This is hard for you."

Buffy frowned, her eyes darting back to his face. She could see it there when she looked at him, that he'd mistaken her silence to mean something else.

"No. _This_ is easy for me." She reached up and gripped his other shoulder in her free hand, pulling him back down onto his forearms and squeezing gently for emphasis. "It's the stuff that comes after…the sitting and the thinking and the dwelling. That part's hard." Turning her eyes toward her fingernails, watching the baby pink scrape lightly at his skin, she admitted quietly, "Anytime I'm not with you is…hard."

Spike didn't say anything for a moment. Just stared at her. Not that she could tell for sure, as she was very carefully not looking at him, but she could feel it. Could feel his eyes on her as he slid his hands over her pillow and up into her hair.

"What can I do?"

Buffy answered him with a blush, her eyes shooting back to his for a brief moment before she ducked her gaze again.

"Right," he murmured, instantly contrite. Cleared his throat. "I mean…aside from the obvious. Which I'm workin' on, by the way." Her eyes found his, and he chuckled at the expression on her face. "I _am_. Lilah phoned while I was away and said she has somethin' new to show me."

Well…that was something. Not exactly the something she'd expected after spending the last three days with his father.

"But you didn't tell your dad," Buffy said quietly, feeling guilty for the tinge of disappointment she couldn't quite hide in her voice.

He sucked in a deep breath. " No." Then exhaled, "Not yet. Wanted to wait until I spoke with Lilah, pet." He sighed, dropped a kiss to her forehead and rolled off of her, settling himself down onto his side, chin propped on his knuckles. "Make sure I've got my ducks in a row and all that before I go spoutin' off about what a disappointing son I actually am."

Her guilt instantly magnified by ten. She knew he hadn't meant for that to happen, but still.

"Spike," she sighed.

"I'll talk to him, pet," Spike promised her, clearly misunderstanding the sigh. "When the time's right."

Buffy rolled toward him, mimicking his position propped up in her bed beside him. "I don't need you to talk to him for me, Spike. That's not why I asked." She reached out and tapped his sternum with her index finger. "I want you to do that for you."

He blinked a few times and said, "I see."

She pressed on. "I mean, I just think it's important for you to get some of it off your chest. He's your dad, he loves you." Her finger trailed a vague S shaped pattern down his chest. "He deserves to know what's really been going on with you."

"Mmhmm," Spike purred, and when she looked at him she wasn't surprised in the least to see to see his signature smirk very much in place. He squinted a little at her, smug. "And the fact that he'll more'n likely tell me to hell with the company and my sham of a marriage makes…no never mind to you."

Because she was just gonna jump at the chance to walk right into that one.

"You're right, you are totally needy," she told him, rolling over onto her back.

"Fine then," he grumbled, his tone the same mix of huffy and teasing as hers had been. He shifted closer to Buffy, leaning down to look into her face. "I will have a chat with Henry _sole_ ly for my own good…when the time is right. In the meantime," he reached for her, turning her chin back toward him, "what can I do for you?"

The tone had shifted again. Away from serious, back to teasing and light. Which Buffy was truthfully more than happy to indulge in.

For now.

"That question is the Merriam-Webster definition of 'loaded'," she informed him playfully, nipping lightly at his finger when he drew it across her bottom lip.

Spike grinned at her, leaning forward to press a kiss to her mouth and whispering, "I tell you how much I love it when you talk dirty to me?"

"Once or twice," she whispered back as he pulled away again.

"Delicious dictionary-themed innuendo aside…" he trailed off, pressing his hand to her hip and gliding his palm up to her ribs, "be honest with me. What can I do to make this easier for you?"

She thought it over for a moment before answering.

"Keep looking at me like that," she told him honestly, her eyes hungrily tracing the lines of his face. Taking in every delicious inch of the way he was gazing at her, like she was the most important thing in the world. Like he'd never seen anything like her before. Like she was precious. Like it would physically pain him to tear his eyes away from her.

Buffy smiled softly, reaching her hand up to lay it across his cheek. "Looking at me like that is a good start."

 ** _-Sunday, July 28th. 11:04am-_**

"I think so," Buffy told her roommate, getting all tingly, all over, all over again thinking about the way Spike had looked at her the night before.

"So, what," Faith perked a brow, jerked her chin in the direction of Buffy's bedroom, "you think old silver fox in there could be it for you?"

It. As in…the proverbial _it_. The real deal. The one.

"I don't know," she said softly, glancing over her shoulder toward her bedroom. Thinking about the look again. The look that melted her insides to buttery goo and made her hot and cold and shivery and perfect all at once. Then she bit down on the inside of her cheek, turned back toward Faith and said, "He could be."

It fell silent between them. Faith stared at her intently, dark eyes scanning her face. Lips pursed thoughtfully. All the while Buffy braced herself, preparing for the onslaught. The lecture. Or, okay, not a lecture maybe…but at the very least a warning. A "be careful, Buffy".

Something.

Anything.

But nothing happened.

After a moment, Faith just shrugged her shoulders and got to her feet, saying simply, "Fair enough."

"Wait," Buffy said, watching the dark haired girl maneuver around the couch, swiveling around on the couch to face her. "That's it?"

Faith snagged her mug off the coffee table and arched a brow. "That's what?"

"' _Fair enough_ ,'" Buffy repeated flatly, gesticulating wildly with her hands as she watched her friend set the empty mug down in the sink. She turned all the way around on the couch, lowering her voice to a hiss. "Faith, I just told you that I'm falling for a married man." She paused for dramatic effect. "For my married _boss_."

"Yeah," Faith agreed drolly, drawing the word out slowly. "You did. And…?"

" _And_ …" Buffy hinted, gesturing with a quick movement of her hand for her roommate to continue on.

Faith sighed, "Gonna have to give me more to go on here, B."

"You aren't gonna lecture me about how this is a disaster waiting to happen?" Buffy asked, hands gripping the arm of the couch. "A-and how it'll only be a matter of time before everything falls apart, and that I'm being a total Jezebel and the only way this can _possibly_ end is in large, heaping, colossal amounts of pain?"

"Why should I?" The brunette asked teasingly, folding her arms up over her chest. "It sounds like you've got that part covered."

There was a long, heavy pause.

"Oh my God," Buffy breathed, leaning back into the couch cushions, reaching up to run her fingers through her hair. She stared down at the coffee table, shaking her head as she asked quietly, "What am I doing, Faith?"

"Hey," the brunette said, crossing back to the couch and putting her hand on Buffy's shoulder. "Don't do that to yourself, okay?" She squeezed her gently and added, "Not now."

But in Buffy's mind, the words sounded a lot like _not yet._

 ** _-Monday, July 29th. 7:15am-_**

Not now, not yet, whatever Faith had meant exactly by those words…Buffy had taken them to be a command that had extended throughout the day on Sunday and on into the evening. Overnight.

Into the next morning.

She was very actively _not doing that_ to herself now, her back spooned against Spike's front. Fingers intertwined.

"Do you need to go home and shower?"

"Mmm, nope. Figured I'd just use yours."

"But I need to use mine."

"I know," Spike murmured, sliding his arm tighter around her waist, nuzzling sleepily into her neck.

"So we'd be using mine at the same time," Buffy postulated, reaching over toward her bedside table and picking up her cell phone to check the time. Ugh.

They were so gonna be late.

Something she cared just a little less about when he smiled against her neck and said, "I know that, too."

"Spike," she warned lightly.

"Buffy," he murmured in her ear.

Late. _So_ late.

How a lazy Sunday afternoon had somehow managed to melt into a lazy Sunday evening, into a lazier Sunday night, and then subsequently morphed into an early Monday morning where they were both now in a position to be very, very late for work…Buffy wasn't even sure. Time had just kept getting away from them. One too many reality TV show marathons, and Faith had been the one to suggest Spike stay for the customary Sunday night dinner…and rest was probably the famed "history" everyone was always talking about.

Buffy turned around in his arms, pushing her palm into his chest to put a little needed space between them. She blinked at him, raising her brows. "You should go home and use your own shower."

"What's the fun in that?" Spike asked, azure eyes twinkling at her.

"I didn't know showering was supposed to be fun," she countered, only resisting a tiny bit when his arm tightened around her waist and he tugged her toward him.

Brushing his nose lightly over hers he smirked and purred, "Then you've been takin' the wrong kind of showers."

He couldn't have been more right about that last part at least.

Something she was forced to concede now as she attempted to wash and rinse her hair with his extremely distracting hands running over her waist. Digging into her hips. Sinful lips pressing little feather light kisses along the back of her neck and shoulder. He'd been very consciously trying to distract her this way since stepping into the shower nearly an hour ago.

She'd let him.

But now the water was starting to run cold.

"You should at least go back home to get ready for work," Buffy said, rinsing the last of the shampoo out of her hair, moving out of the circle of his arms and over to the side to allow him extra room to step under the cooling spray.

Spike made a face at her, perked a scarred brow and reached his hands up to feather the soap out of his curls. "I'll hardly have time to go all the way back across town, pet. 'S already after 8:00." Her eyes bugged slightly. He noticed, quickly shaking his hair out and reaching for her, pulling her under the pelting water with him. Reaching back to crank the dial as far as it would go over toward the little red H, he smiled down at her and said, "Don't rightly need to, anyway. Have clean clothes in the suitcase."

"So, what's your plan?" Buffy asked him, tilting her chin up to look into his face.

Reaching for her little white pouf, scanning the side of her tub for something, he said, "Get clean." Finding what he was looking for, he plucked the lilac scented body wash up and poured it over the pouf. "Get dressed." Capped the bottle, spun Buffy around. Started rubbing over her back in slow circles. "Get coffee. Get to work."

"We're gonna be late," she mumbled, eyes lazily fluttering shut. Kind of not caring.

Spike chuckled, scrubbing circles reaching down to the swell of her lower back. "Get _cab_ to work."

Buffy paused, eyes fluttering open again. She peeked over her shoulder at him to ask, "Together?"

"Why not?" His ministrations never stopped, soapy, lilac covered loofah dipping down over the curve of her ass and down between her legs.

Which made it just a little difficult for her to form a coherent thought, let alone a decent argument.

She tried anyway.

"You know why not." She shivered when he used his free hand to brush her damp hair over her shoulder to run the loofah between her shoulder blades. "Spike, we live in different parts of the city. There's no way we'd ever need to get a cab together."

"Perish the thought," he chuckled dryly. "Turn around."

Buffy did as he'd directed without thought, meeting his eyes steadily. As he trailed floral suds across the tops of her shoulders, her clavicle, and said, "It's got illicit secret affair written all over it. What if someone notices?"

"It's a cab, Buffy." He swirled the loofah over her belly button, smirking. "Hardly an announcement on the scaffolding."

She grabbed the sudsy loofah from him, stilling his hand over her stomach in the process. "Somehow I don't think Cecily would see much difference." She pulled the loofah out from beneath his hand and reached up to scrub it over his chest.

"Bein' a bit dramatic don't you think?"

"Maybe," she admitted grudgingly, lathering his shoulders. "But it's kind of a dramatic situation, isn't it?" Sweeping her hand around the back of his neck. "And as much as I've enjoyed the weekend and as much as I love having you here…you can't tell me spending the night together, leaving for work together and subsequently arriving at work together is exactly smart." She trailed the loofah down to his waist and stopped there. Quirked a brow. " _Or_ stealthy."

"I can see your point, I s'pose," he admitted after a moment, just as grudgingly as she had. Then he tilted his head to the side, squinting down at her, dropping his hands to cover hers. "You really love havin' me here?"

She felt the blush color her cheeks for about the hundredth time in the last thirty-two hours. "Really, really."

He grinned at her, then sighed. Dropped his hands away from the loofah, allowing it to fall to the tub floor and leaving her hands pressed to his stomach. He asked, "You really that worried about the cab?"

Buffy wrinkled her nose up. " _Really_ , really."

"Alright then, new rule. No more spendin' work nights together." He weaved his fingers through hers, lifting her hands and pressing their palms together. "Deal?"

"Deal," she agreed, smiling. Then she dropped his hands, flung the shower curtain back and jumped out onto the rug. Grabbing a towel off the little rack on the wall, she told him, "You can get the cab. I'll walk."

"You'll be late," Spike warned, peeking out from around the edge of the curtain at her.

Wrapping the towel around her shoulders, she glanced back at him and said impishly, "So punish me."

 ** _-Tuesday, July 30th. 2:15pm-_**

 ** _"_** Read it again," Spike instructed, leaning his head into his hand and gazing evenly across the desk at her.

She met his even stare with one of her own, tapping her pen against the desktop impatiently.

He narrowed his eyes. "Don't look at me like that, read it again and you'll see."

He'd asked her to re-read the same passage on the same page coming up quickly on ten times now, asking her repeatedly if she'd been able to spot the supposedly glaringly obvious mistake in it as she went. So far, she hadn't.

What he'd really been doing, she was convinced, was trying to get her to read the passage out loud for him.

So far, she hadn't done that either.

Turning her attention and the tip of her red pen back down to the paper in front of her, she sighed. And just to make sure he knew she was onto him, she told him plainly, "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

"You know," Spike drawled, and she could feel him smirking in her direction, "you say that an awful lot, luv. I can't possibly be up to somethin' as often as you seem to think I am."

She didn't bother to look up at him. "I wholeheartedly disagree."

"You just like to challenge me."

"Are you complaining?" Buffy asked coyly, drawing a showy circle around something on the page. Not a new edit, but an old one. At this point she was just hoping that actually circling _something_ as she read might get them off page 110 and moving onto something else.

"Not one bit," he told her, meaning it. "There, you see it?'

Buffy sighed and looked back up at him, the point of her pen still pressed to the paper, and said, "Why don't you just tell me what 'it' is and I'll let you know."

"Because my telling you would defeat the purpose of doin' it this way in the first place." He reached forward to flip through his own copy, thumbing along the edges until he found the page he was looking for. Lifted the top pages, re-read it quickly. Then, his eyes back to hers, "I've already given you a leg up by indicating there was somethin' wrong with the passage to begin with, all _you_ have to do is spot it and we can move on."

"If I read this anymore my eyes are going to cross," Buffy said, dropping her gaze back down to the text on the page, scanning it over in a rush. All the words were starting to bleed together. She was pretty sure that word had been "touch" the first five times, but it was looking more and more like "tough" the longer she stared at it.

Spike was utterly unmoved by her whining. Lifting his head from his hand, he heaved an exasperated sigh and said, "You could always try reading it aloud, you know. Like I taught you." He paused for emphasis when she shot him a knowing look. Added, "Because it _works_."

Because she was born yesterday.

"I could do that," she agreed slowly with a nod, then a too-bright smile. "But then you'd win."

Spike grinned at her, caught. "Would that be so bad?"

She already knew the answer to that was a big fat no. She was a big fan of Spike winning. Spike winning meant he got what he wanted, which usually meant she ended up getting what she wanted, too.

Funny how that always seemed to work out that way.

God, he was so dangerous.

So instead of answering with the lie, _yes_ , or answering with the truth that would inevitably lead them down the non-work-appropriate road they'd been very careful to avoid since instilling the no work night rule—it had only been a day and it was already proving to be more of a challenge than she would have liked—Buffy decided to steer the conversation into an entirely different arena. Not work related, so she was safe from any eye crossage, but not _them_ related, either.

Which was good.

Really good, since Buffy still wasn't exactly sure what them being a them even meant and where exactly it all was leading; he'd been keeping any news Lilah might have shared with him pretty close to the chest since mentioning it on Saturday.

So…neutral territory. She was very much a fan.

Setting her pen down carefully, she asked, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Is it about the manuscript?"

She pressed her lips together before responding, "No."

"Is it about work at all?"

"No."

That had him pausing, furrowing his brow. "Is it about what Lilah and I are meeting about this weekend?"

"No," she said, but more slowly this time. "Although, now that you mention it—"

Spike cut her off with a secretive smile and an arched brow. "What's your question, luv?"

"Well," Buffy began slowly, not really sure why she suddenly felt all tongue-tied. It wasn't like it was even a big deal. It wasn't like it would mean anything either way. She hadn't even decided if she wanted to do it or not. And she was stalling in her own head. Clearing her throat, she continued, "I was just wondering…and you can totally say no…"

His smirk widened. "Noted."

"Would it be okay if I brought my sister into work one day when she's here visiting?" Buffy asked, surprised by how suddenly awkward she felt. The rest of the words left her lips in a tangled rush. "She's sort of been bugging me non-stop about it since deciding she was going to come visit and I just wanted to make sure I wouldn't be breaking the rules or anything if she stopped by."

Spike just stared at her for a moment. Brow furrowed, like he was confused by something she'd said. Finally he asked, "Your sister's comin' to visit?"

"Yeah," she answered, shifting back a little ways in her chair. Hands folded in her lap. "In a couple weeks, before she starts school in September."

He considered that, looking like he was weighing the information he'd managed to extract from her so far. A little like he was wondering what all else he could find out about Buffy's private life through the small opening she'd given him. "She have any interest in the industry?"

"Dawn? No," Buffy gave a short, bright laugh at the idea and shook her head for emphasis. "No, she's just nosy and wants to be ultra involved in everything I'm doing."

"Sounds like par for the course on a little sister if you ask me," he said, smiling. Clearly pleased that she was being straightforward with him, he leaned back in his own chair and added, "Speaking as a younger sibling myself."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed again, crossing her legs casually as she continued. "But it's more than just your typical younger sibling nosiness. She tends to worry…a lot. Mostly about me." She reached a hand out and grabbed her pen, started fiddling with the cap. More for something to do than anything else. "Nothing too crazy, but she gets panicky if I don't text her and tell her what I ate for lunch."

Spike laughed, one his real laughs she liked so much, and asked, "How old is she?"

"She turned eighteen in April," she said softly, the smile melting off her face a little as she remembered it.

It had been a particularly difficult day. For both of them, but especially for Dawn. It had been the younger girl's first birthday without their mom, the first sort of "holiday" they'd even considered celebrating since November. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's…even Buffy's own birthday, they'd skipped. Not really consciously. It was like there'd been some kind of unspoken rule in the house after Joyce had passed—anything and everything resembling or invariably leading to joy was put on hold. Buffy hadn't minded skipping her own birthday at all, really, but she hadn't permitted her little sister to miss hers.

Even if Dawn had wanted to, there was no way their stepfather would have allowed it. He'd fought Buffy tooth and nail over her unspoken decision to ignore her own, as well as the other holidays that had been glossed over during those first horrible six months.

He'd fought Buffy tooth and nail, period.

Which was largely why she hadn't spoken to him, of him or about him since leaving California at the end of May. But if he'd at any point tried to reach out to her, she'd somehow missed it.

"Well, by all means," Spike told her brightly, his own smile having slipped a little as he stared at Buffy from across his desk. Probably having noted the far away look on her face, no doubt wondering what she was thinking about. To his credit, he didn't ask. "Bring her by. Let her be as nosy as she likes."

"Thanks." Buffy forced the brighter version of her smile back, shoving away the darker thoughts that had clouded her happy ones briefly. "She'll be really excited to see everything. Meet everyone."

"Can I ask you a question now?" he asked, ducking his gaze down toward the manuscript copy on his desk.

Whoa. Was he _blushing_?

She smiled more genuinely now, the rain clouds lifting further, and said, "Sure."

There was a brief pause as he seemed to think over what he wanted to ask. Or how he wanted to ask it. Then finally, still avoiding her eyes, he said, "Would you be willin' to let me take the two of you out while she's in town?"

He finally raised his eyes to hers again.

Buffy blinked at him, surprised. She wasn't sure why she was surprised, how he somehow managed to surprise her so consistently even when what he was saying wasn't all that shocking to begin with. Still, here she was, finding herself surprised. Again.

"Out?" she asked, lashes fluttering against her cheeks.

"Yes, _out_ ," Spike chuckled, tilting his head to the side. "Lunch or dinner, whatever you'd prefer. It'd be my pleasure."

She was still doing that staring and blinking a lot thing, frowning at him. Attempting to wrap her head around what exactly he was asking. "And would this lunch or dinner, whatever I'd prefer be you acting as my boss or my—"

"Boyfriend?" Spike asked steadily, cutting her off. His voice even. Unflustered. Like they were having a conversation they'd had a million times before. Like he'd gone out on a limb and labeled himself her boyfriend before now. Which, no. He most definitely hadn't.

She would have remembered that.

 _Boyfriend_. She ran the word through her head a few more times, getting a feel for it. Was that what he was to her? And if so, did that automatically make her his girlfriend? She guessed that was better than _lover_.

Or _adulterous wench_.

But wasn't labeling something as tenuous as…whatever they had going on something that people were supposed to have a conversation about first? Decide together before bandying about terms like boyfriend and girlfriend all willy nilly?

In the end, she decided it was best just not to say anything about the label at all. Not to confirm or deny the question that she was pretty certain was written across her face anyway.

Spike didn't seem to need her to say anything. The corner of his mouth curving upward, he murmured softly, "I'll leave that up to you."

 ** _-Wednesday, July 31st. 6:32am-_**

It took her approximately one second to spot Spike when she entered the Thinking Cup. He was easy to spot. Easily the best dressed patron inside, platinum head bowed as he flipped the pages of the ratty paper back in his hand.

Steinbeck today.

Buffy fought the urge to roll her eyes.

She was running approximately two minutes late, having had a little more trouble than she'd anticipated in finding the place from his vagueish directions and the early, early morning.

Seriously, it was still dark outside.

She navigated through the surprisingly busy interior, coming up alongside the corner table he'd procured at the very back and setting her bag down in the booth.

He glanced up from his book and smiled, looking pleased. "Good morning," he said, dog-earing the page he was on, closing the novel and setting it face down on the table.

Buffy told him purposefully, "It's 6:30."

He rested his elbow on the edge of his chair and leaned back. "It is at that."

"It's 6:30," she repeated the words again for emphasis, slumping ungracefully down into the booth side of the small corner table. "In the morning."

"I'll guess by the way you keep sayin' that this is too early for you?"

She tapped the end of her nose with her index finger and he laughed, delighted. And chipper. _Way_ too chipper.

"You should have warned me you were a morning person," she grumbled at him, relaxing into the comfy booth a little before turning her attention toward her bag.

"I got you coffee," Spike told her.

"In an IV?" Buffy asked, eyes darting to his again as she pulled her leather bound notebook and a plain black pen out of her bag and set them in front of her.

"There's that razor sharp wit," he lauded teasingly, pushing the second to-go cup he had across the table toward her. "Can't be _too_ early."

"Tell that to the oh so glamorous bags under my eyes." Buffy reached out and took the caffeine offering from him, doing her best to ignore the little electric jolt that pulsed between them and straight up her arm when their fingers touched in the process. Lifting it to her lips she said, "Thanks."

"You could've just said no," he said, eyes steady on her face as she swallowed and set the coffee cup back down on the table.

But she couldn't have. Not really. Okay sure, logically speaking, she could have taken one look at his text message, one look at the positively un-Godly hour in which he'd sent it, and gone straight back to sleep. Or texted him back with something along the lines of _are you out of your mind?_ and then gone straight back to sleep.

But instead she'd said _yes_. Asked _where?_ Found herself meeting her boss…her boyfriend…at the back of a coffee shop she was pretty sure was mostly for college kids at 6:30 on a Wednesday morning.

So sure, she could've said no.

Buffy sighed, "I didn't want to."

He gave her a slow, calculating head tilt. "What did you want, pet?"

 _To spend an extra two hours with you._ "You know the answer to that," she said, turning down once more to her bag, pulling out her own well-worn paper back book and turning back toward him. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes. You are. And look," he said, noting the book she'd just plucked from her bag and set down on top of her folder. His eyes bright, they met hers and he grinned mischievously. "You brought a friend."

She should have known the mocking would be coming. Should have known. Had known. Honestly was prepared for it. She mirrored his knowing little smirk right back at him and picked up her coffee; took another sip, setting it down just to the left of the tattered title across the top of the book.

 _The Great Gatsby_.

"Dawn's writing her final paper on this for one of her summer school classes," she explained with a shrug, dropping her gaze to run affectionately over the old book's cover. "I told her I'd help, so here's me…re-reading."

"For the hundred and second or hundred and _third_ time?" Spike asked.

Her eyes shot back to his, narrowed good-naturedly as she reached down to cradle her book protectively. "You think you're so funny."

"So do you." He said it breezily, slightly dismissive. Then, holding his hand out toward her he asked, "May I?"

Buffy hesitated for one long second, a beat passing between them, before she placed her favorite novel in the palm of his hand. Watched as his long fingers closed around it. She kept watching as he settled the spine into his left hand, began flipping through it with his right until he found the place she'd dog-eared the night before. His eyes scanned across the page quickly, stormy blue darting back and forth until he reached the bottom.

"Mmm," he purred after a moment, nodding his head once before closing the book again and handing it back to Buffy. "He was brilliant, I'll give him that."

Surprised, she took her book from him, setting it back down on her folder. Eyeing him skeptically, she said, "I thought you hated anything not dripping with angst and self discovery."

"Oh, I do," he agreed, breezy and dismissive again. "Doesn't mean I can't find some beauty in the flamboyant and the trivial."

Buffy nearly choked on the sip of coffee she'd just taken.

" _Trivial?"_ She echoed, horrified, slamming the cup back down. "You're kidding, right? There's no possible way you can read that and think…" she trailed off, clamping her lips shut as she realized how much she'd just allowed him to goad her. Inhaling deeply, she settled back into the booth, hands out in front of her as she said, "You know what, no. I'm not having this argument with you."

"Why not?" Spike asked, smiling smugly as he took a casual sip from his own coffee. Eyeing her with luminous, knowing blue from over the top of the lid.

Oh, he thought he was _so_ brilliant.

The whole thing might have annoyed Buffy less if he wasn't.

"Because," she told him pointedly, keeping her voice low and steady now, "we've already had it like, a million times, and you still refuse to see reason."

Spike raised both brows. "And _reason_ being…?"

Buffy sat forward, leaned toward him across the table and pointed a hard, acxusing finger at him.

Voice low, she said, "That despite your own personal and unfortunate taste, Fitzgerald is responsible for some truly influential novels, at least three of which we consider honest to God 'classics' today. Sure, his plots might not be…the end all, be all of compelling storytelling but the _way_ he tells the story is the important part anyway." She could feel her cheeks getting hot but couldn't exactly slow her roll now, pointing down toward her book and saying, "This is some of the most beautifully crafted prose in the history of American literature, and if you happen to think it's overblown or flamboyant, that's your problem." She sat back in her seat again. Paused. Took a deep breath. Then added, "And you're wrong."

Spike just gazed at her, the expression on his face and the light in his eyes a peculiar mixture of varying emotions. A trace of defiance, like he wanted to argue with her more. But there was also a hint of pride. And beneath that, just a touch of the familiar, butterfly inducing hunger she'd seen more than her fair share of over the previous weekend.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, pet," he whispered conspiratorially. And when he leaned across the table toward her she found herself responding instantly. Like there was a string that connected them somehow. He folded his arms over the top of the table and lowered his voice to a sultry rumble to whisper, "I actually quite like Fitzgerald."

Then he sat back again, his eyes dancing, bright as they scanned her expression.

"You…do?" she asked, disbelieving. With very good reason. How many times had they had the anti-Gatsby argument over the past month alone? She couldn't even count them.

"Not Gatsby, mind you," he clarified. Then bit down on his bottom lip and smiled, flirtatious. "But _Tender is the Night_ innit half bad."

Buffy made a face at him. "Now you're just mocking me."

"Maybe," he conceded, chuckling softly in time with her when his admittance made her laugh out loud. He waited for her to quiet again before continuing, his voice quiet, "But I can't help myself."

"You can't help your desire to mock me?" she countered, widening her eyes and raising her brows, faux-offended.

"Can't help much of anythin' when it comes to you, it seems," Spike said softly on a chuckle, the small laugh belying the very raw, exposed truth in his words. But he was smiling at her, the lines around his eyes gentling as he considered her. "But especially this. You get so riled up and passionate about your books…the way you defend them, like you'll spontaneously combust if you don't get the words out." He paused then and looked at her for a moment. Honeyed voice dropping another half step lower, attention singularly focused on her face, he said, "Your eyes get bright and your cheeks flush the most delicious shade of pink and I think to myself, my God, what a bloody force to be reckoned with you'll be some day."

Buffy let the air out of her lungs slowly, the balloon in her chest deflating as it passed her lips. She'd been holding her breath. She hadn't even realized.

She didn't say anything for a moment. Wasn't sure what to say. What did you say to someone after they said something like…that? It wasn't a dramatic speech, or an ardent confession. Far from being Fitzgerald-level eloquent. It wasn't even the most traditionally "romantic" thing a man had ever said to her. Practically speaking.

So she couldn't quite figure out why the pleasant knots in her stomach had somehow found their way all the way up to her throat, making speech of any kind a little on the impossible side.

"If you keep picking on Gatsby you're gonna get tired of having the same argument over and over again," Buffy finally told him softly, unable to tear her eyes away from his.

"Buffy Summers," Spike said seriously, leaning forward across the table toward her one more time. "I could have this argument every day with you for the rest of our lives and never get tired of it."

And in one quick, breathless instant she changed her mind.

That was most definitely the most romantic thing a man had ever said to her.


	18. Chapter 18

**_Saturday, August 3rd. 10:04pm._**

 _Boston Harbor_

 _Faneuil Hall_

 _Boston Public Garden_

Buffy glanced back down at her phone, turned to her notepad and the running bullet point list on her lap and scribbled _Swan Boats_ in parentheses beside the public garden.

She was keeping herself busy, as distracted as possible, and figured as good a way of doing that as any would be to start making a list of places to take Dawn in the city when she was visiting. She was currently scrolling through the online list of "75 Boston Tourist Traps to Avoid"…and jotting down nearly half of them on her notepad as she went. She'd been surprised to find that there even were 75 different tourist attractions to _avoid_ in the city, let alone the thirty or so odd others that were less popular to tourists but came highly recommended from locals.

She was quickly realizing she'd never even been to half of the so-called tourist traps mentioned on the list herself, and in spite of having begun the list as a tool for distraction, she found herself becoming more and more invested in the idea of touring the city she was beginning to think of more and more as home as the night went on.

Distraction from the fact that Spike had been meeting with Lilah about his prenup since before noon was a secondary, albeit positive, side effect.

When there was a loud knock on her apartment door around 10:15, it startled her. But only a little. No, Spike hadn't explicitly told her he'd be coming by tonight after his meetings with the lawyers were over, but she'd sort of assumed he would. He'd been in such a bizarrely happy mood over the past few days, she'd figured he'd want to come by and celebrate things…if there _was_ something to celebrate that was.

Thinking about it like that kind of made her stomach feel funny, so she'd been actively trying not to.

Of course, that all went out the window when she reached the door and went up on her tiptoes to peek through the peephole. Not surprised to see Spike standing there, but a little surprised to see him looking the way he was. Tense. There wasn't really another word to describe it. His shoulders were tight, the muscle in his jaw flexed. Brow furrowed.

None of which were things that exactly spelled "celebration" to Buffy.

A familiar twisting starting in her gut that she was desperately wishing would stop feeling so familiar, she pulled back a little. Reached for the handle with one hand, flung the deadbolt back with the other and yanked the heavy door open.

"Hey," she said softly, trying in vain to read the expression in his eyes as she did. "How did it—"

But Spike didn't give her time to finish the question.

He came through the door in a flurry, letting it slam shut behind him as he took Buffy's face between his hands and kissed her roughly. It caught her off guard, this kiss. Not the kiss itself really, but the way the kiss felt. There was a wildness to it, a type of possessive and frenzied urge she'd felt from him maybe only one other time before that seemed to be guiding his movements.

Spike kept her close to him. He pressed his body hard into hers, swept his tongue over hers, bit jealously at her lips. Clung to her in a way that felt both desperate and maybe a little bit reluctant all at once. And even though Buffy wanted to ask why, wanted to find out what was wrong, she didn't. She let him push her backward, further into the apartment. Let him guide their bodies back until they were standing in the middle of her living room. Let him run his hands down from her cheeks to her shoulders, the length of her bare arms, until they finally settled at her hips. It was only then that he seemed to get what he'd been needing from her, because his entire body physically relaxed against Buffy's.

The kiss slowed.

Frenzied passion was replaced by gentle exploration.

And finally, sliding his arms more fully around her waist, he pressed one more lingering kiss to her lips and pulled back.

Buffy eyed the man standing in front of her warily, the question that had been on the tip of her tongue moments before the whirlwind kiss dying as she studied the look in the storm of his eyes. Lips numb, understanding, she slid her hands up to cup either side of Spike's face. Reading the answer to her question in his gaze, she took a small step back. Let her eyes scan his drawn expression for one more silent moment.

Then, very softly, she answered her own question. "It didn't go well."

Spike shook his head.

Buffy pulled her hands away from his cheeks and let them slide down to the V of his chest instead. Fiddled with the undone buttons at his collar for a moment. Tried to figure out what it was she wanted to say next. God, what was there even _to_ say? To ask? It wasn't like Spike had filled her in on exactly what he'd been going to meet with Lilah about in the first place. He'd kept her pretty far outside the circle on all things lawyer and prenup related which, normally, she was totally grateful for. Being constantly reminded of his very married marital status wasn't something she'd been super excited about. So it had been nice to be able to pretend, even if just for a little while, that things between them weren't completely wonky and bizzarro and wrong.

But Buffy probably should've known they wouldn't be able to play it that way forever.

"What happened?" she asked, honestly unsure if he'd answer her truthfully or not. If he'd be willing to give her any details. He hadn't before, but things felt…different now.

Thing had felt different since the second she'd opened the door to him.

Spike's arms tightened around her waist and for a second, just one, she thought he was going to tell her not to worry about it. That it would all be fine. That he'd fix it.

Instead, he surprised her by saying quietly, "What she thought she found…won't work. Doesn't work. Somethin' about the way the damn document's worded. Went over it for hours," he growled, then sighed. Closed his eyes and leaned forward compulsively to rest his forehead against hers. "The bloody thing doesn't have one buggering loophole in sight."

Buffy frowned, a little thrown. Both by the candidness of his response and by the response itself. Pressing her forehead into his once, she pulled back to meet his eyes again and said, "I thought you knew that already."

"Oh, I did," Spike agreed, his voice growing cold. His eyes flashed and he stood up a little straighter. "Made a mistake, though, didn't I? Let Lilah get my bloody hopes up." He barked a harsh laugh, the smile on his face a bitter one as he pulled his arms away from her and turned back toward the door. " _Again_."

"Is she still looking?" Buffy asked, eyeing the tense set of his shoulders as he slowly shook his head.

She felt the pit of her stomach twist.

"Nowhere else _to_ look, pet," he answered her, his voice low. As chilly as it had been a moment ago, but with an edge to it now. Dangerous. Angry. "Been through it all. The sodding thing's as ironclad as they come." He laughed again, glanced at her from over his shoulder and said, "And it's all the same, innit? No matter which bloody way you slice it. Only way I get out of this marriage with Pratt intact and in my name is if _she_ divorces _me_. _Fuck_ , it's like the bint knew all this was goin' to happen from the beginning."

He wheeled around then, slamming his closed fist into the side wall near the front door with a sickening thud. The hollow sound reached Buffy's ears almost before she'd had a chance to understand what had happened, the combination of the loud noise and the suddenness of the movement catching her off guard. Making her jump.

And his name was out, flying passed her lips in a loud, frightened sound before she could stop it. "Spike!"

His gaze shot back to her immediately, eyes dark and wild and a little bit hazy as they took in the expression on her face.

They stared at each other.

And Buffy watched the change happen in a split second. She wasn't even sure what it was exactly that he'd seen on her face, but it was enough to cut through his frustration and rage, stifling his temper. His eyes went wide, his chest heaving in and out as he pulled his hand away from the wall.

"I'm sorry," Spike said, voice strained. "I'm sorry, I…Christ, you don't deserve this." He took a tentative step toward her, then stopped, seemed to think better of it. Stepped back again. She watched silently as he ducked his gaze to the ground and said, "Shouldn'a come over here until I'd given myself half a mo to calm down."

Buffy frowned at him.

He'd never before looked like he'd been afraid to approach her. Never. Not once. Not even when they weren't together. So why was he…

Her eyes went wide.

Oh.

 _Oh_ , he was worried that he'd frightened her.

But he hadn't frightened her. Not really. Granted, yes, she'd been _surprised_ by the sudden outburst…but should she have been? He had a temper, but she knew that. He'd told her as much. She'd seen it before. Just never…quite so _physically_. But it wasn't like he'd tried to hide this part of himself from her. Pretty much the opposite. He'd told her that story about the P.I. Cecily had hired to tail him; how he'd knocked the guy out and broken his writing hand doing it. He'd told her at least a little bit about his past…how he'd been floundering before meeting Cecily. Getting I trouble with law, drinking too much, getting into fights.

Yeah, he'd _told_ her plenty about this side of himself.

She'd just never seen it before.

And she hated the way he was looking at her now. Or, not looking at her, technically. She hated the way he was _unable_ to look at her. Eyes on the ground, flexing and releasing the muscles in his hand as he shook it out, looking like he was about to bolt from her apartment at any second. Ashamed.

She didn't want him to feel ashamed. Not of anything.

Not with her.

So Buffy reached for him, stopping just short of wrapping her arms around him like she suddenly felt compelled to do. Instead, she simply took his already swelling hand gently in her own.

"It's okay," she told him, meaning it. Waiting for the crease in his brow to smooth, the hard lines around his eyes to soften. Waiting for him to physically relax once more before she turned her attention down to his hand.

"I should've calmed down before comin' here," Spike said again, but stepped toward her this time instead of away. Let her cradle his hand in hers as she studied the faint scrapes along his knuckles wrought from the fist-to-drywall incident.

It wasn't bleeding, but it probably needed to be cleaned up anyway.

"Well, it definitely would've been easier on my apartment," Buffy said, finding his eyes again and making her voice light. She turned to lead him over toward the kitchen sink, adding blithely, "And my lips."

Spike pulled his hand out of hers as they came to the edge of the kitchen counter, stopping her short. He reached out to cup her chin between his fingers, turn her face back to his.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, brow furrowed, brushing the pad of his thumb over her still tingling lower lip.

"No," Buffy told him truthfully. Then grabbed for his hand once more, offering it up so he could see the streaks of red and torn skin over his knuckles as she added, "I can't say the same for your hand, though."

Spike gave her a look that was much more Spike-like than before. Deadpan, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks and the hint of a brow arch, and Buffy found her lips curving into a smile again.

Tugging him further into the kitchen, she flipped on the sink's tap and felt under the stream to make sure it was getting warmer. "Does it hurt?"

"Stings a bit, yeah. Nothin' I can't—bloody hell," he whined when she maneuvered the torn skin under the stream of warm water. Scowling playfully at her, he muttered, "Regular Clara Barton you are, pet."

It was Buffy's turn to give him a look, instructing him to keep the swollen skin under the water as she pumped some hand soap into her palm. Lathered it up between her hands, returned her attention to cleansing his knuckles and murmured, "At least it's the right hand this time."

"Remember that story, do you?" he asked, relaxing a little, leaning his hip into the edge of the counter. Buffy could feel his eyes on her. Trailing over the side of her face, over her arms, down to her hands that were still covering his.

She had no idea why his scrutiny was causing the heat in her cheeks to rise, what there was about this moment that felt so intimate and so singularly different than any they'd shared previously. She didn't know why, but her cheeks were bright pink anyway.

So she kept her attention down to hide it.

"Remember the story about you punching some guy out and breaking your hand in the process?" Buffy shifted her eyes over to his for a quick second before reaching out to flip the tap off. "Yeah, I remember."

"Well, no need to worry, luv," he promised, indulging her by letting her pat the tiny wound dry with a clean hand towel before pulling it back and bracing it on the edge of the counter. He smiled and cocked his head to the side. "This one innit broken."

Buffy folded the towel and tossed it onto the edge of the sink, arched a brow at him. "Should it concern me that you seem so completely sure of that?"

She offered him a wry smile and went to move passed him, stepping around where he was standing and moving back out into the living room.

Spike chuckled behind her. "Trust me, it'll be fine. More'n fine now, I'd wager, thanks to you. I…" he trailed off as he swiveled around to follow her, his eyes landing on the abandoned mug, notepad and pen lying haphazardly on the coffee table. He frowned. "Oh, bugger." His eyes shot back to hers. "You were in the middle of somethin', weren't you?"

Buffy followed his gaze back down to the notepad, the list she'd abandoned work on when he'd arrived at the apartment. She looked back to him and shrugged. "Nothing important."

"Still," he countered, shaking his head. "Shouldn'a barged in on you like that. Not without callin' first." His jaw flexed, cheeks hollowing as he added, "And not while I was still so bloody _angry_."

"You kinda knew that whatever Lilah'd found was gonna be a whole lot of nothing though, right?" Buffy asked, dropping down onto one end of her couch and crossing her legs beneath her. "Isn't that why you never told me what she'd found?"

His expression softened again as he looked at her, impressed maybe that she'd seen through his real motivations for keeping his Lilah cards so close to his chest over the last week or so.

"Didn't want you to get your hopes up, either," Spike told her simply, then paused. She watched from her seated position as something uncertain flickered over his features, shadowing his eyes. She watched as he approached her slowly. Trailed his fingertips along the arm of the couch. Dropped his eyes to his hand and asked, "It…would've gotten your hopes up, yeah?"

She loved when he did that. Got all sweet and boyish and almost shy. Just one more side to his multi multi-faceted personality.

Pursing her lips to the side, Buffy thought about his question for a minute before answering. Not because she didn't know the answer, or because she wasn't sure she wanted him to know the answer, but something else. Something else, something small, was niggling at her. Maybe about what it would make her if she admitted it. If she were to admit to him that yes, hearing that his lawyer had found a loophole in his prenup that would allow him to divorce his wife and eventually be with her, free and clear, would have gotten her hopes up so high they could've orbited the moon…

Did that make her a bad person, or just an honest one?

Maybe it didn't matter either way.

So she held his gaze, smiled softly at him and said, "Yeah."

He was pleased by her response. Even if the soft, glowy way he was looking at her hadn't given it away, the very amorous kiss he leaned forward to leave on her lips would have nixed any doubt left.

Spike pulled away from her again stood back up, went to sit beside her on the couch. Dropping down onto the cushion next to her and leaning his head back, he sighed, "There's gotta be another way." Let his eyes fall shut on a slow exhale. "I'll find another way."

She eyed his profile, nibbling down on the inside of her cheek. "Another way…around the prenup, you mean?"

"That's the plan," Spike agreed, nodding, opening his eyes again to glance at her.

The answer was a disappointing one.

It shouldn't have been, she guessed. Never once had Spike given her even the tiniest of indications that if his plan to work out a loophole failed that he'd planned on letting twelve years of pent up stuff just _go_. That he was willing just to let things with his marriage and with Pratt go to hell in a Buffy-shaped hand basket. The work was too important to him. The sacrifice had been too great. She knew that. What was more, she understood it.

But the ache in her chest was a little on the undeniable side.

"Right," she said now, nodding once. "I figured."

Spike sat up straight and leaned toward her. Eyes intensely focused on hers, he promised, "I _will_ find another way, luv."

"I know you will," she told him quietly, but in her head it sounded like _I know you'll try._

But he seemed to be satisfied, reaching forward to pluck the notepad off the coffee table. "This what you were workin' on before I so rudely interrupted?" he asked. Buffy nodded, watching his eyes scan over her list. He began to read aloud, "Copley Square, Plimoth Plantation, Fenway Park." He paused, eyes glittering as they found hers again. "You have a sudden urge to see the sights, luv?"

"Not me," she said, trying to stave off his ruthless teasing before it could even begin, shaking her head. "I was just…putting together a list of places I want to take Dawn while she's in town, that's all."

"Tour Guide Buffy," he quipped huskily, flashing her a wolf-like grin.

And managing to completely neutralize her defensiveness in the process.

"That's me," she agreed, relaxing into the corner of the couch. She matched his smile with one of her own, gesturing toward the list. "I know she'll want to go out and shop and all that, but I thought it'd be good for her to check out some of the more historical stuff while she's visiting."

He arched a skeptical brow. "The first Dunkin Donuts location?"

"1955 is totally historical," Buffy countered, sliding her foot out to poke him in the thigh with her toe.

Spike raised both brows and nodded like he thought she was ridiculous, still looking like he was just barely holding back a fit of giggles as he turned his eyes back to her list. Clearing his throat, he continued, "The Boston Tea Party Museum, Old North Church." That one had him rolling his eyes good naturedly and dropping the list down into his lap with a smack. "Buffy, have you been to _any_ of these places yourself?"

"Well, no," she admitted slowly, the rest of the words tumbling out in a rush as she tried to head his mocking off at the pass. " _But_ I've only been here for basically two months. And it's not like I've exactly had a ton of time to go out and explore the city."

Spike made a face like he was forced to concede her point, tilting his head to the side.

"Mmm, I s'pose that's true," he agreed on a low purr, vibrations rumbling toward her. "If your boss doesn't have you workin' then your boyfriend's got you holed up in bed." His tongue touched the roof of his mouth as he smirked. "Doesn't leave a lot of spare time for sightseeing."

Unbidden, the skin of her arms prickled over in goosebumps. How he could do that, how he could _still_ manage to do that with little more than a look and strategically placed tongue curl, she'd never know.

Feeling inexplicably tingly all over, Buffy pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and agreed, "Nope."

He tossed her notepad back down onto the coffee table. "You know, I'd be willin' to show you birds around some of these places if you'd like, seein' as how I've actually _been_ to most of 'em."

That surprised her. "You have?"

It surprised him that it surprised her.

"Lived here for over twelve years, luv, of course I have," he told her dismissively. Then, seeing the slightly narrow eyed look she was giving him, " _What_?"

"Nothing, it's just…" Buffy trailed off, wrinkling her nose up and dropping her voice to a stage whisper. "That doesn't go against your British code of conduct or anything?"

"Very funny," he growled playfully, reaching to loop his arm around her waist and haul her toward him from across the couch. And she laughed as he settled her firmly in his lap, her back cradled against his front and he began leaving little kisses up the curve of her neck.

"I just don't want you to get in trouble with the Queen," she explained wryly, tilting her head to the side to give his lips access to her jaw, her cheek.

"Bloody hell," he murmured against her skin, tightening his arms around her waist. "You and Henry both. I'll have you two yanks gangin' up on me for the rest of my life, won't I?"

Things grew suddenly serious between them. Both of their chuckles quieting, not looking at each other. Whether he'd noticed exactly what he'd said, whether or not he'd said it intentionally, Buffy wasn't sure. Was even less sure if it was something she should bring attention to. It was the second time he'd made some kind of reference like that out loud. Once before in the coffee shop, about never getting tired of arguing with her.

And now this, tonight.

It didn't sound like a calculated comment. Not really. But her stomach was doing little back flips, anyway. And who even knew if it was coming across to her the way that he meant for it to? She was probably just reading too much into a casual comment.

Or was she _supposed_ to be reading into it?

Messy. She'd always known that this would get so messy. And messy wasn't what she was looking to get into tonight…not after the day it seemed like he'd had.

So deciding _that_ was a conversation for a much, much later time, Buffy brushed it aside.

Turning her head fully to the side so she could see Spike's face, she said, "I think Dawn would have fun getting a tour from someone who actually knows where they're going. Thank you." Then she paused, grinned, and added, "On one condition."

Spike looked curiously cautious. "What's that?"

Buffy shifted a little in his lap, turning and cocking her head to the side. She fluttered her lashes at him, let a small, secretive smile spread across her lips. And, lowering her voice to its most seductive timbre, she asked, "Will you help me throw some tea out into the harbor?"

And she knew she'd succeeded in subverting any more serious discussion when his eyes flashed hungrily and he spun her back around.

"Mmm," Spike rumbled in her ear, letting his hands wander from her waist. He slid them slowly down her sides, over her hips, stopping to toy with the button at the waistband of her shorts. "Ask me to anythin' with that voice and I'll more'n likely say yes."

Buffy shivered under his attentions, turning to smile coyly at him. Leaning closer to him she whispered, "Good to know."

Spike popped the button he'd been playing with and slid his hand down, kissing her smiling mouth.

 ** _Monday, August 5th. 1:12pm_**

Spike was out of the office on Monday.

He hadn't told Buffy what he'd be out doing exactly other than he'd have meetings all day and wouldn't be in the office. Which really wasn't anything new. She rarely had an idea of his exact schedule, mostly content with the fact that she figured if there was ever something she absolutely _needed_ to know he'd fill her in. She had her suspicions, something he'd mentioned off handedly the day before about having to meet with his sister about something or other, but he'd been all not in the mood to talk about it and she'd been all not in the mood to push, so that was that.

Honestly, she was still just trying to get her bearings on the whole having a relationship that wasn't a relationship thing. It had really only been what, two and a half weeks since she'd made the decision to pursue things with Spike? That really wasn't long in the grand scheme of things…she supposed it just felt like longer because of all the other massive hunks of junk they had to go through to get there.

Still, it left her with a quandary as to what exactly this relationship of theirs was. What exactly it meant. What she was entitled to know and what was better left alone. How far exactly it was going to go. Where it was all headed. She had her suspicions about that stuff, too, but no way…no way…was she going to be the first to open that can of particularly wriggly worms. Spike was under enough pressure as it was from himself alone to deal with his situation, he didn't need her piling on all her own inner turmoil, too.

Spike had left her that morning with instructions to help Cordelia with whatever tasks she had lying around, but to keep working through her pet manuscript as time allowed and to be prepared to go through the next couple chapters in detail with him on Tuesday and Wednesday.

The two of them had already made it about halfway through her initial round of notes from the first read through and had been adding things here and there as they went through the manuscript together. So far, he'd found a ton of things just glancing at it that she hadn't managed to spot even after poring over it. She hoped that was a skill set that came with time and wasn't something you either just had or didn't have, because she was screwed otherwise. Something she spent a little time whining to Cordelia about as they'd sat at their desks earlier in the day.

As it so happened, the brunette hadn't had a whole lot on her plate work wise for a Monday, and thus hadn't been able to give Buffy a whole lot of anything to do.

Other than gossip.

Truthfully, Buffy hadn't even realized how little time she'd been spending with her work friends lately until she'd sat down across from the other woman over their late lunch and she started filling her in on everything that she'd missed. In particular, everything she'd missed between Xander and Cordelia.

Which was a lot, apparently.

Buffy paused, her sandwich halfway to her lips, and blinked. "He _what_?"

"He bit me," Cordelia repeated, dropping her fork down into her salad, leaning back into her chair with a sigh.

"Okay, yeah," Buffy said slowly, setting her sandwich back down onto her plate, dusting her hands off. "That's what I thought you said." She frowned, thinking it over. Then, "What…I mean, how…?"

Cordelia threw her hands up. "I don't know. I think he just got nervous, but who really knows what was going on in that circus of a brain. It was awful, Buffy." She leaned forward across the table and lowered her voice. "Foreheads smacking, teeth clashing, lip biting…the whole train wreck of a shebang." Slumped back again. "It was as horrific as it sounds."

Buffy could only imagine.

"Oh, Cordy," she said, shaking her head sympathetically. "I'm…wow." Because really? There didn't seem like there was much else to say except…that.

Of course, she'd known there was something going on between the two of them long before now. Obviously, she'd been trying to cajole Xander into admitting his feelings for the striking brunette for weeks before he'd actually gotten the nerve up to do it. Or, sort of do it. She wasn't sure the drunken phone really counted, but he'd obviously gotten the nerve up to ask the other woman out sometime between then and the disaster date…so maybe the drunken phone call was just the jumping off point?

Either way, there'd been obvious sparkage between the two of them.

Apparently, sparkage that had only grown in the time she'd been spending working so closely with Spike. And with Xander's unrequited love all of a sudden becoming requited, finally getting what he'd wanted, finally getting Cordelia to agree to go out with him…hearing that it had ended in bloody lips and shame made her chest ache.

And Buffy's eyes went wide then as she realized which of her two friends had probably gotten the worse end of the bad date deal, and she breathed, "Oh God, poor Xander." It was her turn to lean forward. "He must have been so embarrassed."

"Embarrassment was the word of the evening," Cordelia agreed with a nod.

Buffy leaned back into her own chair, nibbled thoughtfully on her bottom lip. Then she said, "Okay, tell me exactly what happened."

"He was just dropping me off," Cordelia explained, gesturing absently. "Dinner had gone well, or at least I _thought_ it had. We'd been having fun. Things were a little awkward, I guess, but nothing out of the ordinary for a first date, you know?" She sighed, long and slow, like she was gearing herself up. "So there we were just standing on my doorstep and I was saying...something about the food, or the music, or the stupid birds in the stupid trees when I turned back toward him and wham." The brunette smacked the palms of her hands together for emphasis, making Buffy wrinkle her nose at the suggestion. "I'm bleeding from the lip and he's muttering something about the flavor of my lip gloss and taking off down the street and he hasn't spoken to me since."

"Since?" Buffy asked, realizing she actually hadn't been told yet when exactly this catastrophe had taken place.

The other girl made a face and said softly, "Saturday night."

Buffy winced.

So this was an ultra fresh wound they were talking about.

Which actually made Buffy feel a little better, because Xander had said all of approximately one word to her that morning while the three of them had been sitting at their cubicles. The radio silence made a little more sense now.

"God," she murmured appreciatively. "No wonder he was so quiet this morning. I thought it was me."

"Oh, no," the other girl said, drawing the word out. "Definitely me."

Buffy reached forward to pick up her half eaten sandwich again. She toyed with eating the rest of it for a minute, then set it back down. Pushed her plate away and decided she'd rather ask the brunette, "What are you gonna do?"

"Hello," she chided, looking annoyed. "Where have you been? This is why I'm telling you. I don't _know_." Cordelia reached for her fork, picked it up. Used it to shove bits of lettuce around her plate for a quite moment or two. Then sighed, put it back down and met Buffy's eyes to ask, "Is there any coming back from something as catastrophic as this?"

Buffy almost laughed at that. Had to physically bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep from doing so.

Not because she thought that her friends' situation was funny, but more because of how…innocent it all seemed to her. Which was a little wiggy in and of itself, since she'd considered herself to be largely of the innocent and naïve variety herself just a couple months ago.

She gazed across the table at her friend and considered her, tilting her head to the side as she did. Just exactly how catastrophic did Cordelia actually think this was?

More catastrophic than accidentally sleeping with your boss before you knew he was your boss?

More catastrophic than finding out that you didn't just sleep with your boss, but your married boss?

More catastrophic than finding out you didn't just sleep with your married boss, but that you were undeniably, and unequivocally, falling in love with him?

Yeah.

As far as disasters went, a not so stellar first kiss didn't seem so bad to Buffy.

So she smiled and said honestly, "There totally is. Besides, you guys had a rough first kiss…it's not exactly the end of the world." She paused to give the other girl a look, a sly little smile. "Especially with how he feels about you."

Cordelia feigned ignorance. Arching a sculpted brow she blinked at Buffy and asked, "How am I supposed to know how he feels about me?"

Buffy countered the arched brow with a flat, knowing look.

"Cordelia, you know how he feels about you. He flat out told you, didn't he?" She gestured toward the other woman's cell phone for emphasis. "The night of the party?"

Still feigning ignorance, Cordelia frowned. Furrowed her brow like she was thinking hard about something. Then asked casually, "What, you mean the drunken message he left me that night professing his unrequited and undying love for me?"

It was funny how she tried to make it sound like that wasn't the sweetest thing ever.

"Well…" Buffy trailed off, raising a skeptical brow. "Yeah."

And the little façade the brunette had been sporting vanished in a second, replaced by a smile that was equally dazzling and somehow shy all at once. An expression Buffy'd never seen cross her friend's face before, but one that suited her just the same.

Left with little else to do, and not much of anything to say, she offered an equally warm smile back.

And then, for one quick second, Buffy felt jealous.

Painfully jealous.

It surprised her. How strong and visceral it was, a quick burst of envy for Cordelia and Xander both. For the relationship they were building. No walls to hide behind, nothing to be genuinely ashamed of, no looming threats from family or friends or perfect wives hanging over their heads. That Cordelia could sit here and openly discuss their date. That Xander could pursue her unapologetically.

That Cordelia knew, even before they'd actually started dating, exactly how Xander felt about her.

It must've been nice to know for sure.

"So you're saying this is salvageable?" Cordelia asked now, bringing Buffy out of the dark place in time to see her friend duck her gaze down to the table, shy smile still in place.

"Absolutely," she said brightly, shaking off the bizarre sense of jealousy that was still burning in her chest. "But you guys are gonna have to actually talk to each other. No more Gilbert and Garbo stuff, okay?"

"Okay," Cordelia agreed, looking pleased enough with that advice. She picked her fork back up and dove back into her salad, lifting a bite to her mouth before saying, "Enough about me now, let's talk about you."

Buffy chuckled dryly, wrapping her hand around the glass of diet soda in front of her and steering the straw to her lips. "What about me?"

"You've been seeing somebody, right?" The dark haired girl asked after she'd swallowed, her tone light, super casual. Like it was something so totally obvious.

Buffy nearly choked on the sip of soda she'd just taken.

Swallowing it in a rush, coughing just a little, she managed to ask, "What?"

"Oh, come on." Cordelia favored her with a sly smile, spearing another piece of lettuce and cucumber. "Did you think we wouldn't notice?"

 _Yes._ "Notice…what, exactly?"

"That you're always happy lately," the brunette told her cheekily, popping another bite into her mouth and chewing it. Looking all the while like she knew something Buffy herself didn't.

Mind racing, pulse picking up speed, Buffy tried to think if there was anything she'd done or said in the past couple weeks to indicate that she was seeing anyone. Or worse, to indicate _who_ she was seeing. She didn't think so. Not directly, anyway.

But, _Oh, God_ …had she ever left her cell phone lying around? She'd been trying to be so careful. Could she have left it out someday at her desk and gotten a text from Spike? Did Cordelia even know who _Spike_ was?

"I'm not…always happy lately," she said slowly, frowning a little. Trying her best to play it ultra cool and wondering if she was in fact happy all the time lately. She didn't think she was.

Was she?

God, her stomach was in knots.

And seemingly oblivious to the ice-cold panic filtering through her veins now, Cordelia continued, " _And_ you're practically glued to your phone, which I assume means you're getting texts from a special someone." She paused then and waved her fork in Buffy's direction, making a semi-disgusted face at her. "And the past few weeks you've been coming into the office all perky and glowing on Monday mornings."

Buffy held her breath, waiting for the other girl to continue. To bring up more evidence. To emotion something definitive and irrefutable, and not just a string of supposed "signs".

But she didn't. Instead, Cordelia raised her brows high and expectant, looking like she was waiting for Buffy to either confirm or deny her very vague suspicions.

Buffy breathed a sigh of relief.

Cordelia didn't know anything. Not for sure. She'd picked up on little things, yeah, but nothing definitive. It wasn't like she had proof. And she clearly had zero idea who it was that was causing all of these little things to begin with.

Buffy decided to just play it cool. Relaxing her shoulders, folding her arms casually over her chest, she quirked a brow and asked, "And all of this equals out to Buffy must be seeing someone?"

Cordelia scoffed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Please. The only reason to ever come into work on a Monday morning all perky and glowing is if you've been getting some special attention from a special someone over the weekend." She grinned and set her fork down again, pushing the plate of greens away. "So? Spill."

"Spill what?" she sighed, trying to look annoyed instead of guilty. "Cordy, there's nothing to spill."

And wouldn't that be just her luck. No sooner had the denial tumbled out of her mouth then her cell phone, which up until that point had been sitting oh so innocently off to the side, vibrated.

Loudly.

Buffy glanced down just in time to see the text message lighting up the screen, the name card attached to it— **Spike** —and lunged for it, snatching the phone off the table before Cordelia had a chance to get a peek. Not that the other girl probably knew who "Spike" was, but after the conversation they'd just had…well, she was thinking it was better not to take anything that even resembled a chance.

Eyes down on her phone, she slid the pad of her finger over the screen to unlock it and view the message in full.

 **Spike. 8/5, 2:02pm.** _You wouldn't believe how much I miss you._

Unbidden, a bright, wide smile crossed her lips.

Immediately followed by a smug sounding "Sure there isn't" from Cordelia.

"Okay," Buffy murmured, darkening her phone's screen again and stuffing it into the safety of her purse. She pinned her friend with a flat look. "What can I do to get you to drop this?"

"God, you're so bizarre, you know that?" Cordelia asked, the question an obviously rhetorical one as she tossed some cash onto their small table and stood up. "Most girls jump at the chance to dish over their new guy."

Buffy followed suit, hoisting her bag up onto her shoulder as she did. "I still don't see why you think there's even a guy to begin with."

"Because I'm not blind," the other girl insisted, pulling the café door open to allow Buffy to exit in front of her. Letting it fall shut behind them as they stepped onto the sunny sidewalk. "Or an idiot. I told you about the disastrous first kiss, the least you can do is tell me if I'm even right."

Buffy was starting to think there would be no dropping of the subject until Cordelia had gotten all the information she wanted.

Figuring it was better to head it off before she could dig too much deeper, she sighed and said, "Fine. There might be…someone. But it's nothing serious," she lied with a simple shrug, hoping her voice sounded as casual as she'd been going for. She glanced toward her friend to see her smiling smugly, so she added, " _And_ it's complicated."

"It always is," the brunette hummed knowingly.

"Yeah," Buffy agreed, her voice a little tired sounding as they rounded the corner and the full side of Pratt Publishing's building came into clear view. "It always is."

 ** _-Friday, August 9th. 3:09pm-_**

"I thought this chapter was fine as is," Buffy offered, flipping the page on her manuscript and gazing down at the bolded number 21 at the top of it.

From across the desk, she could hear the smirk in his voice as Spike asked, "Did you now?"

She looked up to find him mocking her with his eyes.

It had been a not so great week for them. Professionally speaking, things had been tense. They'd argued over pieces of the manuscript every day since he'd returned to the office on Tuesday, couldn't seem to see eye to eye on any of the changes either one or the other of them wanted to make. It had taken them days to get through a chapter where before it had taken them only hours, and they'd finally stalled out altogether on chapter 20 while trying to decide if the author had made a mistake by having her romantic protagonists "fall in love" too quickly.

Buffy's vote was no.

Spike's vote was yes.

And she'd tried really, really hard to ignore the tight pull in her belly that little dispute had caused.

She'd been way relieved when they'd agreed to disagree and to come back to that particular topic once they'd finished going through the rest of the copy.

That was until just now, with his knowing smirk and his sparkly blue gaze challenging and sardonic from across the desk.

Buffy sat back and pointed the tip of her pen at him. "Don't make that face at me, buddy. I just thought, on the whole, this one was especially well done." His smirk widened. She sighed. "What?"

"Nothing," Spike said. "Except you're wrong."

Of course she was.

She'd been wrong every day this week.

Starting with her very flat refusal to come over and spend the night at his place on Monday night, not that he'd ever admit that's why he was giving her such a hard time at the office. But he didn't have to admit it, did he? She was getting as good at reading William H. Pratt as he was at reading manuscripts. Something the man himself pretended to be annoyed by, but that she was beginning to suspect he secretly adored.

"Fine, I'll bite," she murmured now, setting her pen down and considering him through playfully narrowed eyes. "Are you gonna tell me _why_ I'm wrong, or just sit there looking all eye-smiley and smug?"

The blue of his eyes flashed.

He liked it when she challenged him at work.

Without another word, never taking those roguish eyes off her, he leaned forward and pushed his own copy of the manuscript aside. Reached further forward to grab a hold of Buffy's and slide it back across the desk toward himself. He spun it around, dropped his gaze and picked up her pen.

She watched from her seat as he scanned it once through quickly, then pressed the red pen to the paper and circled something. One something.

He set her pen back down and pushed the manuscript back in front of her, saying pointedly, "That bit doesn't make any sense."

Buffy looked down at the text in front of her to see what one thing he'd circled.

It was a character's name.

She frowned. "What are you talking about? That part makes perfect sense."

She had to admit, she was genuinely confused. Normally she could at least sort of figure out where it was he was coming from, but this left her at a loss. All he'd circled was a name.

How could a character's name not make sense?

"No, it doesn't," Spike countered evenly, reading the confusion on her face and tipping his head to the side. "Not logically speakin', anyway."

She thought about that for a second, glancing back down to the circled name, then back to her boss. Logically speaking…the character's name didn't make sense.

Yeah, no, she didn't get it.

Frustrated, both with his arrogance and her apparent lack of comprehension, Buffy sighed and leaned back in her chair. "You've officially lost me."

Instead of holding out and making her work for the answer like he usually did, Spike took pity on her. He leaned forward to explain, "It's a classic mistake, pet. Takin' a throw away character that's mentioned once or twice before early on, essentially ignored throughout the rest of the story, then brought back in a whirlwind of shock and surprise with no narrative purpose other than to be a catalyst for what the writer thinks is 'necessary' drama." He threw the word necessary up in air quotes, his tone oozing disdain as he did.

And Buffy found herself immediately feeling a little bit silly for having not seen the obvious ploy for what it was. She hadn't noticed anything was technically wrong with the chapter because to her, nothing had been wrong. She'd enjoyed it as it was.

Would he be disappointed in her for not noticing something that obvious?

Which was why she sheepishly admitted now, "But…I liked the drama."

Even if it had been "unnecessary".

It had also been totally delicious.

But far from being disappointed in her and her very non-editorial response, Spike seemed charmed. Giving her one of those bone melting, softly affectionate smiles, he leaned back in his chair and said, "I'm sure you did. More'n likely our readers would as well."

Buffy frowned deeper.

That seemed like a contradiction to her. Hadn't he been trying to get her to see what their readers would see from the beginning?

Leaning forward, she picked up her pen and circled the tip of it over his circle, asking, "Why is this a problem then?"

"Technically?" Spike asked, threading his fingers together and laying them on his desk. He smirked. "It's not."

Her mouth fell open as his smirk widened impishly.

"I knew it," Buffy gloated, tossing her pen down again with a smack. "I knew there wasn't anything wrong with this chapter."

"I did say _technically_."

She shook her head at him. "You just had to find something, didn't you? Why even bother to bring it up?"

He raised two dark brows like it should be obvious and said, "Because it's a bloody cliché and it bothers me."

"Now you're just being all nit-picky," she murmured, shaking her head. Not quite able to keep the side of her mouth from curving upward.

Spike grinned at her. "That's the job, luv."

His cell phone rang.

Tossing Buffy a playful wink, he raised the phone to his ear, his voice going from flirtatious to consummate professional on a dime as he answered, "William Pratt." There was a brief pause afterward, he was listening to whoever was on the other line, and then he relaxed. "That's fine, Mary, I'll wait. Right. Thank you."

Drumming the fingers of his free hand on the table as he did just that, he pursed his lips thoughtfully. Buffy kept her eyes down on the text in front of her, wondering if she should leave to give him more privacy.

Also wondering who "Mary" was.

She didn't have to think about it too long though, getting her answer less than a minute later when Spike sat back in his chair and sighed, "Hey, Dru."

Buffy's ears perked up and she glanced toward her boss again, relieved mostly that he wasn't sitting across from her answering a phone call from Cecily.

Feeling less like she was imposing now, Buffy watched from her chair as he listened to his sister for a minute or so before catching her eyes from across the desk and rolling his dramatically. She chuckled. So did he, adding into the receiver, "You wanna talk bloody unnecessary, how about you havin' your assistant ring me in the middle of the day only to put me on hold until you can make it to the phone yourself. No, I…Drusilla, no. Yes." He tipped his head back, shut his eyes. Reached his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Yes. I don't know, I'll have to ask her. Oh, bloody hell." Spike shifted the phone down from his ear, covering the receiver with the palm of his hand and fixing his eyes on Buffy. "Drusilla wants to know if you'd like to have lunch tomorrow."

She stared at him for a second.

That…was unexpected.

"Umm," Buffy began slowly, twisting the pen in her hand around. Fiddling with the cap. "I mean, I don't…" she trailed off, pulling her lower lip into her mouth and biting down on it. Her brow furrowed. "Wouldn't that be a little bit…obvious?"

Spike smiled slightly at her hesitance, assuring her, "It'd be at her house, luv. Very discreet I'm sure."

Buffy nodded. Well, that was one concern down.

Too bad several others had just popped up to take it's place.

Like the fact that Buffy was anything but sure that she was ready for a whole afternoon alone with Spike's striking and enigmatic older sister. Was this some sort of test? Was she going to show up for tea and instead be ambushed with a rousing round of "what are your intentions with my brother"?

Or worse, was Drusilla planning to tell Buffy to leave well enough alone and end this idealistic relationship before either of them had a chance to really get invested.

 _Or hurt._

Head all nice and jumbled, she considered her boss from across the desk, silently pleading with him to give her some sort of indication on what he was thinking about this unexpected invitation. Wondering if there was a right or wrong answer here. If there was, Spike wasn't giving her an easy read. His expression was uncharacteristically impassive as he sat and watched her, waiting for a response.

Buffy exhaled, long and slow, through pursed lips. "By myself?" she finally asked, her voice still softly undecided.

"No, kitten," Spike assured her again, though his expression remained unreadable as he did. Like he wasn't entirely sure what to think about all of this himself. "I'm invited, too."

"Oh." She blinked a few times. Well, that changed things a little. And seemed to make the decision way easier automatically. "I guess…sure." Then she nodded, warming to the idea. Thinking that she actually _would_ like to see his sister again, she smiled. "Yeah."

But Spike didn't smile back.

"You sure?" he prompted instead, pressing the palm of his hand a little tighter over the receiver on his cell phone. The action was deliberate, like he was inviting her to recant her decision.

A little confused, she frowned at him. "I just said I was."

"You can say no, pet," Spike told her, his voice low. Like he was reminding her that she was still free to turn the invitation down.

Which bothered her, though she wasn't one hundred percent sure why.

"I know I can," she told him simply, brow furrowed. Trying to understand what it was he was trying to say without actually _saying_ it. "I'm saying yes."

His eyes flashed. Subtly, sure, but enough that Buffy noticed. There was something he wasn't telling her. Something he was thinking that he didn't want her to know he was thinking.

And why he wasn't just _telling_ her what that something was, she didn't know.

But it was really starting to bug.

She opened her mouth to ask him, point blank, what was going on but she never got the chance as Spike lifted his hand off the receiver and brought it back to his mouth.

"Right," he said, his voice light again. "Well then, Dru, looks like we'll be seein' you tomorrow. Mmhm, I will." A pause, his eyes met Buffy's steadily once more. "I love you, too."

And even though he was obviously talking to Drusilla, Buffy felt a distinct tingle shoot down her spine and stir the butterflies permanently living in her belly.

Something Buffy was super quick to ignore.

"Okay, what?" she demanded instead as soon as he'd hung up the phone and set it down on the desk.

He sighed, sliding his still-bruised right hand up to cup the back of his neck. "She told me to tell you 'hi' for her." He frowned and glanced down toward the papers in front of them, adding, "And that she's lookin' forward to seein' you again."

Which still didn't explain the bizarre, negative attitude he was sporting now.

"So…" Buffy began, trailing off and dipping her head down slightly to try and catch his eyes. "She just called you up to see if we wanted to have lunch with her?"

"Mmhm." Spike sat up straight again, dropping his hand down to drum his fingers against the desk top. His lips were pursed, cheeks hollowed. Thinking about something.

"That was nice of her," Buffy offered absently, trying to draw some sort of definitive reaction from him.

But all Spike did was nod slowly and murmur a low, "So it would seem."

Great. More with the cryptic.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you mean?"

It was silent in the office for a minute or so. She stared at him, he stared at the table, the sun beginning to set lazily in the massive window behind his chair.

"I dunno," he admitted finally, shaking his head. He blinked a few times and met her gaze again. "Maybe nothin'. Have a weird feeling, is all."

That had her nibbling her bottom lip.

"What kind of weird feeling?" Because she was sort of getting one now, too.

Spike shook his head once more, seemed to force himself to smile at her and said, "'M sure it's nothin', pet."

And she honestly wasn't so sure.

But if there was one expression she'd come a long way in being able to recognize, it was Spike's _I'm done discussing this_ look. It was the expression he had on his face now. Even if she felt like getting into a squabble over it, which really, she didn't…she knew she wouldn't get very far.

So instead she leaned forward, turned her eyes down to the papers in front of her and said simply, "If you say so."

Another minute or two passed in just slightly awkward silence before she heard Spike clear his throat. Say her name quietly. "Buffy?"

"Yeah?" She asked, looking up from the manuscript she'd really only been pretending to read.

She found him staring at her.

Not just staring, but gazing. Unapologetic. Unchecked affection. It was so raw, and so _there_ , and so entirely unexpected that for a moment it actually caught Buffy off guard. His eyes were gentle, so incredibly blue, and they bore into hers in this sincerely knowing way that told her he'd had every intention of showing her this exact feeling when she'd glanced up, this very specific expression.

She just wasn't sure why he was showing it to her _now_ of all times. Of all places.

He'd agreed to actively avoid making her go all gooey at work.

Feeling her cheeks flush hot, and an emotion that landed somewhere in the no man's land between extremely uncomfortable and overwhelmingly awe-struck, she prompted in a quiet voice, "Spike?"

"Buffy, I…" he began automatically, like the words were forming themselves on some sort of long-known instinct. But he immediately trailed off. Swallowed hard. She watched him duck his gaze and clear his throat, and when he found her eyes again, his were stormier than before. "I'm proud of you."

Buffy was about ninety percent sure that wasn't what he'd actually been about to say.

Something she was about ninety- _five_ percent sure of when he scrambled a little a second later to point demonstratively down to the manuscript and add, "You're doin' great work here. Really."

Sitting in her chair, realizing she'd barely been breathing throughout that entire wig worthy exchange, she just nodded. Then figured she should say something and added, "Thank you."

And the two of them hurried to return to their work, a big, heavy veil of all the words still left unspoken hanging in the air between them.

They worked the rest of the afternoon in silence.

 ** _-Saturday, August 10th. 12:55pm-_**

They were supposed to be at Drusilla's townhouse at 1:00 for lunch.

They'd been sitting in the back of the cab parked out front of Drusilla's townhouse for ten minutes. Spike had been anxiously fidgeting with his tie, bouncing his leg and drumming his fingers on Buffy's knee for the past five.

"Okay," she said after she'd had enough, reaching her own hand out to cover his, stopping the drumming. "You have to stop doing that."

He turned his face toward her. "Doing what?"

"Fidgeting. You're making me nuts." Buffy threaded her fingers through his and frowned. "Why are you so nervous?"

Spike made a face at her.

"Nervous?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "I'm not nervous, luv." But he turned to glance out the window, narrowing his eyes toward the townhouse's front door and lowering his voice. "I don't get nervous."

She arched a brow.

 _Sure._

"Yes, you are. And _yes_ , you do. And your nerves are putting my nerves all on edge. What's the deal?" She squeezed his hand once to bring his eyes back to hers, cocking her head to the side to say, "This is your sister we're meeting for lunch, Spike, not mine."

He chuckled at that and nodded, relaxing just a little. "I know that pet, but I—" he stopped short and frowned. "Wait, you sayin' I should be nervous to meet your little sis?"

"Oh, definitely."

Spike mock-scowled at her.

"I'm kidding. Sort of." Buffy watched him roll his eyes at her, but the tense set of his jaw never lessened. She sighed, turning her own head to glance out the window and saying, "Please relax, you're making my stomach all twisty."

From behind her, he sighed. And, using the pad of his index finger to trace a tiny, almost imperceptible symbol on the tip of her bare knee, he said, "Can't have that, can we?"

Keeping her eyes fixed to the townhouse, Buffy pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and bit down, smiling around it.

He'd drawn a heart.

"Right then," he said a moment later, pulling his touch away from her leg and clapping his hands together for emphasis. "Shall we?"

Spike paid for the taxi and together they exited and began the short walk to the small front porch, keeping a careful, set amount of distance as they did. She attempted to calm the flutters in her stomach that all of his fidgeting had started, and the tiny heart had calmed, as he reached across her and rang the doorbell.

They shared a furtive glance as they waited.

They didn't have to wait long.

Drusilla answered the door like she was floating on a cloud, clad in a floor length blush colored sundress that should have washed her out completely but only ended up accentuating the blush over her pale, angled cheeks and glittering eyes. Buffy stopped just briefly to admire the woman in front of her, wondering if their mother had been as similarly striking, before Drusilla was gripping her gently by the hands and tugging her playfully inside the town home.

Spike followed, carefully pulling the door shut behind them.

"You're just in time," his sister cooed, leaning forward to press an airy kiss first to Buffy's cheek and then to Spike's before turning and floating toward the parlor. "Everyone else has already arrived."

That had both Spike and Buffy pausing, his hand immediately stilling where he'd placed it against the small of her back.

"Everyone else?" he asked, his voice suddenly hard.

Drusilla paused where she stood in the arched doorway between the foyer and the parlor, turning to glance at him from over her shoulder. "Yes," she said, voice light and lilting even as her expression grew serious. "Everyone else."

Both Spike and Buffy found themselves speechless.

Drusilla just smiled brightly once more, then turned her back on the two of them again and floated on into the parlor.

Immediately, Buffy's head began spinning with the idea of "everyone else". With the idea of just who exactly the older women could mean by those two numbingly horrifying words.

 _Everyone else._

Of course, her brain leap-frogged over all the more mundane, less than terrifying possibilities and went straight to one. The worst one.

Cecily.

Spike seemed to be doing the exact same thing as he tightened his hold around Buffy's waist, squeezing her reassuringly against his side just once before letting go of her completely.

Preparing for the worst.

He murmured her name and she swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly gone entirely dry, and looked up into his face. He nodded at her, offered her a weak smile. She took a deep breath in and smiled back. The two shared one long, last poignant glance. Took a few steps away from one another.

And then they stepped slowly into the parlor.

Henry was standing there with his back to the arched entryway, head bent down, reading the book he had opened and balanced on his left palm. But that was it. Just Henry…no one else.

Buffy felt her shoulders sag with relief, letting the air she'd been holding in out through her nose. Just Spike's father. Not his wife.

 _Thank God for tiny, itty bitty favors._

"Dad," Spike said, drawing the older man's attention over toward them. His voice was strained. A little relieved, a little surprised, and a little irritated all at once.

Henry, for his part, seemed genuinely pleased to see his son.

"Hey, kid," he said, snapping the book shut and setting it on the mantle. Grinning broadly, he crossed the decorative rug and stuck his right hand out.

Checking himself a little, Spike grinned back and shook his father's proffered hand. Obviously going for casual now, he said, "Didn't know this was a whole family affair."

Buffy fought the urge to wince at his choice of words, still halfway hiding behind him. Already wondering what type of excuse Spike was going to offer for her being there at what was clearly meant to be a family lunch.

Pumping Spike's hand once more, Henry frowned. "Your sister didn't tell you I was coming?"

"No, she didn't," Spike said pointedly, that same hint of irritation present as he shot his sister a sidelong glance.

It grew quiet for a moment as father and son eyed each other. One a little sheepish, the other obviously curious. Henry's bright eyes shifted slightly to the side, full registering Buffy's presence there before darting back to Spike's. He arched a questioning brow.

"Uh, Dad," Spike said, sliding back and to the side to reveal Buffy fully to the older man's gaze. "You remember—"

"Buffy," Henry supplied, smiling kindly down at her and extending his hand to her as well. "Of course. How could I forget?"

"It's nice to see you again, Mr. Pratt." She smiled as brightly back as she could, noting the way he seemed to squeeze her hand purposefully just once before releasing her.

"It's nice of you to say so," he chuckled, turning his attention back to Spike. "Not sure Will here would agree with you if the look on his face is any indication."

That much was true, as _Will_ was in the middle of glaring very painful looking daggers at his older sister. She barely seemed to notice, busying herself as she was flitting around the artfully decorated dining table at the center of the room. Humming as she filled four glasses with iced tea.

Impervious to the half-asked question from his father, but apparently not so much to the notion that whatever weird feeling he'd had the day before had been very well founded, Spike continued to stare through narrowed eyes at Drusilla.

Meeting Henry's eyes briefly, Buffy cleared her throat and murmured, "Spike."

His eyes whipped back to hers. "What?"

She tipped her head in the direction of his father, watching the understanding steeling over his features as he blinked a few times, and they both turned back out to face the older man.

Who…was staring at them in a way that was just a little too shrewd for Buffy's liking.

"Everything okay?" Henry prompted, his eyes darting between the two of them as he did. Like he was asking both of them, not just one.

"Fine, yeah," Spike managed, nodding his head. His eyes drifting back toward the table, he took an impulsive step forward. "Everything's fine. Dru, can I see you for a minute?"

"Now, now, William," Drusilla breezed, barely bothering to glance in his direction as she straightened a fork. "We're just about to have lunch. Can't it wait?"

Spike's jaw clenched tight even as he smiled at her. "You know, I really don't think it can."

"Well, it'll have to," she told him simply. Then striking blue eyes shot with sudden, laser-like focus directly over his shoulder. "Buffy, dear, come help me in the kitchen?"

"Oh, um," Buffy began to respond, watching the older woman whirl around and glide through the swinging wooden door into what she assumed was the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, she glanced up toward Spike and finished lamely, "Okay, sure."

He gave her a pointed look as she set her purse down on one of the floral printed chairs and proceeded to move between the two Pratt men, heading on heavy legs in the direction Drusilla had just gone.

"What can I help with?" Buffy asked as she stepped inside the kitchen, taking a minute to peek around the surprisingly spacious room. Large windows on the right side, white washed wood cabinets lining the left and center of the square room a little higher than eye level, an old fashioned looking stove set off directly behind a massive center island covered in white granite.

That's where she found Spike's sister now, busy drizzling balsamic vinegar into a large silver bowl of mixed greens. Eyes down on her task, the dark haired woman mused, "You aren't surprised."

Buffy blinked a few times. "What?"

"I can see it, you know." Drusilla glanced up and smiled, tilting her head slowly to the side. "You aren't surprised that Henry's here. Were you expecting him?"

She hadn't even realized she wasn't all that surprised to see Spike's father standing in the parlor until she'd been told she hadn't been all that surprised to see him standing in the parlor. She guessed that mostly had to do with Spike and his weird feeling, or whatever sixth sense had obviously correctly told him that something was up.

And the question from his sister was such a direct one that Buffy never even considered not answering truthfully.

"Spike told me he thought something was off," Buffy admitted, watching the older woman somehow effortlessly wield a set of sterling silver serving utensils as she placed salad on the edges of each of the four plates.

That made Drusilla giggle and grin. She gave Buffy a knowing nod and set the salad servers down. "He's a clever one, isn't he? My brother. And noble, too." She danced toward the stove, wrapping a towel around her hand to grip the handle of a pan sizzling there. Turning to set it down on a hot pad near the salad bowl, she said, "When faced with dilemma he'll so rarely choose the path of least resistance."

Buffy watched, quietly realizing that her purpose in the kitchen wasn't actually to help with anything. Not food wise, anyway.

Clearly, this woman wasn't in need of any real "help" in the kitchen.

She wondered briefly what Spike and Henry were talking about back in the parlor room, but pushed that thought aside in favor of having a frank discussion with her boyfriend's sister.

"By path of least resistance I'm gonna guess you mean ending his marriage," she murmured, dropping her voice down lower as she did.

If Spike wanted to talk to his dad about the real reason she was there with him, that was fine, but it would be his decision. Not because he'd overheard her say something she shouldn't have through the thin townhouse walls.

"Of course," Drusilla hummed, giving the contents of the softly sizzling pan one last coating of ground black pepper. "I never thought he should have married the beastly woman in the first place. Even after he explained to me why." She sighed and set the pepper back down, picking up a fork in it's stead. "Lovely thing he's done for daddy, true, but the cost has been so high."

Buffy stood in silence for a moment as the other woman dipped the fork into the pan and brought it to her lips. Blew on it. Popped it delicately into her mouth and practically purred her approval. She wondered absently if the siblings shared their affinity for cooking because they'd been taught together, maybe even by their mother before she'd gotten sick, or if it was just something they both happened to enjoy doing.

She wondered if she should ask.

In the end she decided against it, stepping a little further into the room and asking instead, "You think he should just let the company burn then?"

The question had Drusilla's movements coming to a screeching halt, her eyes shooting up and meeting Buffy's for the first time directly for only the second time since they'd set foot inside the townhouse. Blinking a few times, her lashes as dark and lush as her brother's, she frowned deeply.

It only made the features of her face more striking.

"Buffy," she said softly, the melodious lilt of her voice barely audible in the kitchen. "This isn't about the company."

"It is for Spike," Buffy countered quietly.

Disappointment washed over Drusilla's face in a wave., beginning at her eyes and ending with the delicate curve downward of her lips.

"Dear, dear. Thinking too much with his head again, then," she mused softly, her eyes on Buffy but…not on Buffy. Like she was looking just through her instead of truly _at_ her. Then she shrugged suddenly, attention back on the food. "Pity. That's what got us into this tangle in the first place. Knew I'd have to force his hand, you know. Knew once I had to with you it would be the same for our father." She began using the fork to scoop the contents of the pan—some sort of white fish—onto each of the plates with the salad as she mused, "William is very brave, but sometimes he needs just a little nudge in the right direction."

"This feels more like a shove," Buffy told her flatly.

And not a little one, either. More sort of the two handed, out in front of on-coming train variety.

"Maybe," Dru conceded, nodding her head and smiling dreamily. She finished with the plates and turned to flip the stove off, regarding Buffy with glittering eyes when she face front again. "But you understand, don't you? I'd begun to worry that he'd spent so long being miserable he'd never be able to recognize happiness when it arrived." She paused then to slowly tilt her head to the side once more, eyes and lips soft as she murmured, "And then…you."

Buffy felt her shoulders go tense.

"Me?" she asked, her voice small, hesitant.

The older woman merely nodded, tearing a sprig off some small green plant that Buffy was guessing was some kind of herb…she really wasn't sure. Wedging it onto the plate as a garnish she said, "He'll listen to you in the end."

But Buffy was really starting to think Spike wasn't up to listening to anyone other than himself.

Frowning, she shook her head. "You're his sister and he hasn't listened to you. What makes you think it'll be different for me?"

Drusilla didn't look up from her task as she stated simply, "Because he's in love with you."

Simple. Flat. Just like that. Like nothing. A passing statement, something of so little consequence that it didn't even require eye contact. Which had the wiggy effect of making it seem that much more…true.

Buffy stared at Spike's sister for a minute. Blinked. Swallowed. Tried to think of something worthwhile to say.

What _were_ you supposed to say to that?

Was there a playbook for this? _What to do when your married-boss-who's-also-your-boyfriend's sister tells you he loves you before he's told you himself_.

 _For dummies_.

God, that'd be a doozy.

In the absence of having any idea whatsoever as to what she should in fact say to something like that, Buffy settled for a tried and true classic.

"What?"

"Hasn't said it yet has he?" Drusilla queried, glancing up, staring at Buffy as though she could discern the answer just from looking at her face. Which she could, apparently, because a half second later she was shaking her head and adding, "No, he wouldn't have. Not yet. But he will." It had the ring of a promise to it as she pushed two of the full plates forward until they were on the side of the island nearest to Buffy. "He is. He wouldn't be willing to risk it all if he wasn't. Now, be a lamb and grab those plates, will you?"

And with that, the dark haired woman grabbed up the two plates nearest her and grinned widely, moving at a glide around the granite island and breezing back through the swinging kitchen door.

And helpless to do anything else but stand and stare mutely at the space the mystifying woman had just been standing, Buffy reached down, grabbed the other two plates and did the same.

 ** _-Saturday, August 10th. 1:59pm-_**

It had been the longest forty-five minutes of Buffy's life.

Talk about there being an elephant in the room. The fact that this little gathering was so obviously meant to be a Pratt family luncheon, and the fact that at least one key member of the Pratt family was conspicuously missing… _and_ the fact that said key member had been effectively replaced by Buffy at the table.

Well, those were facts that didn't seem to be lost on anyone.

Though nobody directly addressed any of them, which almost made the whole thing worse.

Almost.

It wasn't that the rest of the Pratt family had been rude to her. At all. Exactly the opposite actually, both father and daughter seeming to go out of their way to make sure she was included in their discussions as they chatted about everything from the exceptionally warm August weather, to Drusilla's most recent collection of poems, to the upcoming trip Henry had been grudgingly planning to take to Europe for one business reason or another. His children had teased him genially about his distaste for travel, joked happily with one another and even engaged in an admittedly funny battle of one upping one another's most embarrassing childhood stories. Beneath the seemingly pleasant banter, there'd been a slight edge to both their voices that hadn't gone unnoticed by Buffy, leaving her wholly incapable of relaxing.

Or of enjoying the meal.

And all the while Henry's eyes kept finding their way back to Buffy's, something she'd begun to suspect early on had been part of Drusilla's strategy in seating her directly across from the older man in the first place.

His eyes were fixed on her face when he finally addressed her directly for the first time.

"So, Buffy," Henry said, folding up his cloth napkin and resting it on top of the delicate lace tablecloth. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. "Will tells me your sister is going to be visiting from California next week."

Unprepared to be suddenly put on the spot, Buffy finished chewing and swallowed, nodding as she did so and wiping her mouth hurriedly with her own napkin.

"That's right," she said, managing to smile politely back. "She starts her freshman year of college at the end of the month and I thought she'd like to come out before then. Take in a little culture that isn't all sun, surf and shopping related. Uh, she's interested in my work, so she'll come into the office for a day." And that wasn't even true, she realized only after saying it when Spike gave her a questioning look. She was rambling, and she knew she was rambling. She was nervous. And what was worse, she couldn't quite tell why she was nervous. Whether it was because she was talking to the head of Pratt Publishing or because she was talking to her boyfriend's father, she really couldn't tell. Not that it mattered. Nervous rambling was nervous rambling…which she couldn't seem to stop. "Then I thought I'd show her around the city. There's so much to see. I've hardly seen any of it myself, but I've…heard good things."

Buffy stopped and took a deep breath, pressing her lips together and glancing toward her plate. Her cheeks were on fire, embarrassed.

But if anything, Henry seemed to be charmed by her pathological over sharing rather than put off by it.

"You have some places in mind?" he asked, sipping his iced tea, gaze amused as he eyed her over the rim of the glass.

"A whole buggering list of 'em," Spike jumped in, tapping the top of Buffy's foot lightly with his own under the table and sending her a reassuring sidelong glance before directing his attention to his father. "Some of your favorites, I might add."

Henry laughed out loud then. Rumbling, similar to his son's, but more booming. Like he was laughing all the way from down deep in his belly.

Clearly delighted by something, he set his glass back down and set his elbows on the table. Leaning forward, he pointed a finger toward Spike and asked, "You shared your tourist trap list with him?"

"Yeah," she admitted, helpless to not smile along with the rest of the table now. Relaxing for the first time all afternoon, she let herself sink further into the dining chair and tossed Spike a grateful look.

"Brave soul," Henry commended, still chuckling. "Did he mock you mercilessly?"

Buffy turned to look at Spike, who was now smirking at her from around his iced tea glass the same way his father had a few moments ago.

Well…okay, not _exactly_ the same way.

"I wouldn't say mercilessly," she teased him, still smiling. "But there was definite mockage."

Spike chuckled and sat his glass down, leaning slightly toward her. "Only where deserved," he teased back readily.

Maybe just a little _too_ readily, as both of them seemed to realize at the exact same time and shifted back in their chairs, turning their eyes back toward his father as Spike cleared his throat and Buffy's cheeks flamed again.

Henry was discreet enough to ignore the slightly too-flirtatious exchange. Drusilla hummed loudly, obviously pleased. Spike returned his attention to his iced tea.

Buffy wondered who it was exactly they were trying so hard to fool.

"Did you consider walking the Freedom Trail?" Henry inquired, clearly having moved on with the conversation. Clearly genuinely interested in the "tourist trap" list she'd come up with for her sister.

Buffy's brow furrowed. "The Freedom Trail?"

"Oh, here we go," Spike groaned.

"Hush, William," Drusilla scolded.

But Henry simply ignored both of his children, his eyes still focused intently on Buffy from across the table. Smiling kindly at her, he widened his eyes and said with faux astonishment, "Don't tell me you've never heard of the Freedom Trail."

Spike leaned toward Buffy again, this time speaking out of the side of his mouth in a conspiratorial and way exaggerated stage whisper. "Just say you have or we'll be here all bloody day."

"But I haven't," she insisted on a laugh, directing her attention back toward the elder Pratt.

"Oh, Buffy," Henry said excitedly, leaning toward her again. Clearly more thrilled by the idea that she hadn't heard of it than he might've been if she'd said she had. "It's a necessity if you're doing an honest to God tour of Boston. Half the historical sights worth seeing in the city are on it. It'd save you some time in the long run, too." He paused to think something over, glanced toward Spike, then cocked his head to the side "Is your sister interested in history?"

"Dawn? No." Buffy shook her head, pandering, "But you can't visit a city like Boston and not find it all a little fascinating, at least."

Spike scoffed. "Says the girl who's lived here for two sodding months and's never even been _near_ the harbor."

"No," she agreed, drawing the word out sarcastically. "But I _can_ see it from your office window."

He pinned her with a playful narrow eyed glare.

"What day were you planning on?" Henry asked, voice amused as he drew her attention back to him.

Still chuckling, she answered him, "I was thinking next Saturday. She flies in Thursday and only stays through Monday morning, so we have to fit a lot into a short amount of time."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers as he seemed to think that much over.

"Why don't you let me show you ladies around that day?" He asked then, the sudden suggestion wiping the smile right off Buffy's face and leaving her briefly speechless. Henry didn't seem to notice, though, as he was already in the thick of planning their proposed outing. "It's been a few months since I've taken the time to visit the sights myself, it sounds like fun." He sat back in his chair and snapped his fingers, adding, "Bet it'd save you money on a guided tour, too. There are some great side streets along the way that aren't marked, keep you away from those vultures in colonial costumes."

Beside her, Spike had gone rigid. He was trying to act casual as he sipped from his glass, but she could feel his eyes on her face as she nodded slowly, swallowed. Wished to high heaven she could read his mind so she'd know what it was he wanted her to say.

Was she supposed to say yes, of course? No, thank you? She had no idea which would be more incriminating, or obvious.

Or had they been so way more than obvious already?

"Oh," she said slowly, going out on a limb and hoping it wasn't going to snap beneath her. She offered Henry a bright smile. "Umm, thank you Mr. Pratt. But actually," she turned to gesture toward the bleached blonde sitting next to her, "Spike's sort of already volunteered himself to take us around."

And it was Buffy's turn to freeze as she noticed the subtle shift in Henry's expression at the sound of his son's nickname. She'd used it once before already but she hadn't been looking at the older man then. If she had, she'd have noticed it just the way she was noticing it now. And it was subtle. Nothing super obvious. Not even as obvious as a flash of his eyes, and it lasted only about as long as a second.

But it was so like Spike. God, _so_ much like Spike that it was impossible for her not to notice.

If he hadn't known there was something going on between them before, he did now.

Raising both brows high, he shifted his attention and his face toward his son and asked, "He has?"

"Uh, yeah," Spike murmured, azure eyes shifting to meet Buffy's furtively before going back to Henry's. "Know how I told you I was showin' her round town today, helpin' her scout places to take her little sis?"

Buffy blinked a few times and felt her eyes bug slightly.

Oh. So that was the excuse Spike had come up with for why Buffy was with him at the family luncheon.

Well, crap.

That would've been helpful to know _before_ she'd started talking.

"Mmhm," Henry was saying, murmuring an agreement that didn't sound all that much like an agreement to Buffy's ears, never taking his eyes off his son.

But if Spike was thrown by his father's perceptive gaze, he didn't show it. Just relaxed back into his chair and shrugged, saying, "Figured I'd go with 'em on the day, too." He tossed a sardonic and somehow non-flirtatious look her way, magically making light of the entire awkward moment by adding, "Knew Summers here would get them lost good and proper if left to her own devices."

That was a neat trick.

She was gonna have to learn that trick.

"Are you gonna let him talk about you like that?" Henry teased her, his voice bright and laughing again, any tension from before seeming to have evaporated away.

Relieved, Buffy shrugged, kept her tone light and airy to match Henry's and said, "He writes my paychecks."

"Sure, sure," the older man agreed with a wry smile and a nod, chuckling. "Well, I don't see any reason why we can't all go. That is, if it's alright with you and your sister, Buffy."

"That sounds great," she told him, smiling. Mostly for lack of having anything better to say. And for a very deep desire not to cause another awkward rift between the table again.

"Perfect." Henry leaned back in his chair once more, smiling contentedly, his eyes shifting back and forth between the blonde pair. "I think it's a great idea, Will. Introducing the interns to the city." He tipped his head to the side and Buffy didn't know if it was her imagination or not, but she could have sworn she saw his lips twitch upward. "It's nice to see you taking such a vested interest in the internship program for a change."

"Vested interest, indeed," Drusilla purred, getting languidly up to her feet and looking entirely satisfied with herself.

Spike's smile tightened, his jaw clenching and his voice going cold as he turned his eyes to his sister. "Need help clearin' the table, Dru?"

"Mmm, that would be quite lovely," she agreed, smiling sweetly at him. Apparently relaxed now that whatever it was she'd been trying to accomplish had seemingly been completed. "Thank you, William."

Buffy sat silently in her chair as she watched Spike fold his napkin and toss it onto the table, getting to his feet. He grabbed up her plate and his and followed his sister as she strode across the room, the two siblings disappearing through the swinging door and into the kitchen.

A moment later, any noise from the other room was drowned out by the sound the running water and clattering dishes.

With nothing left to do, Buffy turned toward him and smiled. It felt weak.

It was quiet between them for a long second, maybe two, but not much more than that before he appeared to make a decision. Leaning forward to put his elbows on the table, Henry threaded his fingers together and rested his chin on top of them. Then, azure eyes fixed to her face, he sighed, "Why do I get the feeling that you and I need to have a chat?"


	19. Chapter 19

**_-Saturday, August 10_** ** _th_** ** _. 5:12pm-_**

"She's unbelievable," Spike growled, shoving his key into the lock and turning it sharply, gripping the doorknob to bust his way into the condo. He was seething, his body practically vibrating with rage even now. He'd been like that since they'd left his sister's townhouse thirty minutes ago, hardly speaking to Buffy at all except to ask her if she was all right and sharing with her some very choice words about just what he thought his sister could do with her "concern" when she'd tried to tell him Drusilla was simply worried about him.

To say it had been a super long cab ride would have been a considerable understatement.

"She was just trying to help," Buffy said for what felt like the millionth time but was actually probably only the third, catching and holding his eyes as he held the door open for her to follow him inside.

Spike scoffed, a short burst of air out through his nose as he narrowed his eyes. "Help. By lettin' us walk blind into the bloody lion's den?" He let the front door slam shut again, angling his body toward hers as she passed him. "Yeah. _Real_ helpful."

Buffy turned to pin him with a hard look.

But had to admit he did have a point.

No matter what her intentions had been, Drusilla had misled them in failing to mention that she'd also invited Henry to the lunch. While she hadn't out and out lied, something Buffy had been consistently pointing out to Spike since they'd left, he'd insisted that just because it had been a lie of omission didn't mean it wasn't still a lie. And okay, she could agree that when he put it like that…it didn't sound so excusable.

Still, Buffy was torn.

On the one hand, she completely understood what Drusilla had been wanting to do for her brother. And to her, that was the main point anyway—what she'd done she'd done _for_ her brother. And Buffy knew she'd be lying herself if she said she didn't sort of halfway agree with what the other woman had been trying to do. For Spike's sake at least, if for no other reason.

But on the other, stronger and largely more convincing hand, was something Spike had explained to Buffy through tightly clenched teeth in the cab on the way back to the condo. That he'd had a specific conversation with his sister only a couple weeks before about talking to their father. That he'd told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn't ready to yet.

So…there was that.

"Okay, sure," Buffy conceded now, reaching down to lay her purse on top of the overnight bag she'd left on the floor before leaving for Drusilla's. "She probably should have warned you or something first. But it wasn't _that_ big of a deal."

Spike's eyebrows shot sky high, his lashes fluttering. "No?"

Buffy fixed him with another steady look, straightening. "No."

"Right," he challenged, rocking back on his heels and folding his arms tightly across his chest. "And what if my sister'd gone the whole bleeding nine yards and invited my wife over for lunch as well as my father." He widened his eyes. "Would it have been a big deal then?"

Buffy froze automatically at the mere thought of that, remembering the sheer gut wrenching panic she'd felt flood through her veins when they'd first arrived and Drusilla had dropped the "everyone else" bomb. Yeah. As far as deals go that would've been a large one. And she could tell by the look on Spike's face that he'd caught her there.

It was easy enough for her to stand there and tell him everything was fine and that the luncheon hadn't been a total disaster and that it wasn't a big deal because for her, it hadn't been. Not really. Spike not wanting or not being ready to tell his dad about his marriage and the arrangement he'd made to save Pratt wasn't something that necessarily put _her_ in an awkward position.

But it had put him in one. It had been the biggest of big deals to him, and she knew it would be unfair and insensitive of her not to try and understand that.

Chastened, Buffy swallowed against the nervous lump in the back of her throat that cropped up whenever he made direct reference to his wife and dropped her gaze down to the patterns in the marble counter.

Reaching a pink fingernail out to trace a gleaming back swirl, she murmured quietly, "But she didn't."

As though that made the rest of it excusable.

"And we can thank our lucky stars for that," Spike muttered, dropping his arms from his chest and stepping around Buffy to move into the main living space. She followed his movements with her eyes, studying him as he paused with his back to her. Shook his head and gave a low half-laugh. "Jesus, she knew, she bloody well _knew_ I wasn't ready to tell him. I told her I wasn't." Buffy watched his hands curl tightly into fists at his side, the corded muscles in his shoulders going tense as his temper flared again and he visibly fought to keep it under control. " _Christ,_ you'd think she'd have learned after the way things went down with you that she can't play bloody puppet master whenever she sodding well _feels_ —"

She was reaching for him before she even realized it, interrupting him mid-thought as she slid her palm lightly over his bicep. "Spike, please." She tugged him around to face her, relieved when he complied without much resistance, waiting until he met her gaze to add, " _Nothing_ happened. Your sister got involved where she maybe shouldn't have but it's not like it worked." She paused to search his eyes, trying to read the expression on his face. "You didn't tell Henry anything—"

Spike shook his head, reaching his hand up to cover hers where it lay against his arm.

"Didn't tell him anythin' about my marriage arrangement, no." His eyes focused intently on her face, he let his fingers weave between hers, the gentle touch of his hand belying the storm still raging in his eyes. The sharp edge in his voice. "Be willin' to bet he's got us pegged good and proper though."

She felt her own expression darken as she considered that, considered him.

There was a coiled tension growing so thick in the air she could taste it when her tongue darted out to wet her lips. They stared at each other as the long moment stretched even longer between them, and Buffy found herself wondering for the hundredth time since leaving the lunch if now would be as good a time as any to tell him exactly what she'd said to his father. What his father had said to her. To talk to him about just how "pegged" he did or didn't have them, good, proper or otherwise.

But she hesitated a second too long and the moment seemed to pass. Spike's eyes flashed, grew cold as he dropped his hand away from hers. Turning his back to take two slow steps toward the large bookshelf, he said, "So now instead of gettin' the whole story all at once when I was ready to tell him, he probably just thinks I'm using my intern for an easy shag. Brilliant."

His words cut her in a strange way.

Buffy was surprised by the immediate impact they had. She was even more surprised by the physical reaction she had to them, flinching, sucking in a quick, sharp inhale that felt automatic. Like that was the only response to have, some deep seated fear she hadn't even been aware of until that very moment making it's presence known.

She scrambled to wipe the shocked expression off her face, grateful that Spike hadn't been looking her way to see it. She pushed the odd twisting in her stomach away and tried to focus on the fact that she knew he hadn't meant that the way it had sounded.

Reminded herself that he was upset.

And, ignoring the new, hollow ache in her chest, she told him simply, "He doesn't think that."

"Yeah?" Spike chuckled, but it sounded bitter. He glanced toward her from over his shoulder, the azure of his eyes narrowed and icy. "And you're so certain?"

Buffy fought the urge to wince again. She knew….or at least the most rational side of her brain knew…that the callousness in his voice wasn't directed at her. She also knew on some distant level that his flippant description of what he believed his dad thought about them wasn't really a reflection of what _he_ felt about them.

Still.

This wasn't something she'd quite been prepared for. His frostiness. Or rather, his frostiness one second, warm fuzzy the next, then back to icing her out. She'd known his moods were of the more mercurial nature than usual already, what with how freaked he'd been over the lunch to begin with. She'd been seeing it all morning before they'd left for Drusilla's. And now that he'd been unequivocally proven right, she probably should have known something like this was going to happen.

Recognizing the moment for what it was, she cleared her throat. Figured now really was as good a time as any to explain to him what had transpired in the ten or so minutes he'd disappeared into the kitchen to scold his sister.

"Pretty sure," Buffy said softly, biting down on the corner of her bottom lip.

Brow furrowing, Spike turned back fully around to face her. "How?"

 ** _-Saturday, August 10th. 2:02pm-_**

She stared steadily ahead at the still swinging kitchen door, eyes fixed to the gold plate that acted as a handle as it shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Fixing her gaze there as though she could will Spike to come back out and announce that while they'd had a lovely time, they really had other things they needed to be doing.

She was sure it would work. Super sure.

Any second now.

"Buffy?"

At the sound of her name, she jerked her attention back to the older man seated across the table. Blinked a few times. Then her eyes went wide as she realized he'd asked her a question. Not just any question, he'd asked her why he felt like they needed to have chat.

And she still hadn't answered him.

In a rush, she told him, "I'm sorry." The she paused, frowned. "That sounded rhetorical."

"That's because it halfway was," Henry replied, chin still resting on his hands. Then he paused himself, tilting his head to the side in a way that reminded her so much of his son. " _Do_ we need to have a chat?"

That question was just a little too loaded for her to feel comfortable answering it. Truthfully, she kind of felt like the answer was no. If anyone here _needed_ to have a chat with Henry, it was Spike. But given how the afternoon had unfolded she'd already made the educated assumption that that particular chat was going to be waylaid for the time being. And while Buffy was feeling a little torn about the less than ideal situation Drusilla had put Spike, and by extension herself, in today…she knew for sure it wasn't her place to go spilling the _my marriage is a sham_ beans on her boyfriend's behalf.

"I…don't know," she finally managed to counter, shrugging her shoulders in a way she hoped to the highest of hopes read casual. "Do we?"

Henry's response was a small smirk as he gazed evenly at her. Instead of answering her question he said meaningfully, "You called him Spike."

Buffy felt her stomach drop.

 _Crap_.

She knew that'd come back to bite her.

And if she hadn't felt like she was in the hot seat before, God, she sure did now. Her fingers started tingling where she had them folded in her lap, what she was positive was a splotchy red flush inching up her neck and into her cheeks as she nodded, swallowed. "I…" she began, then stopped. Stuck, pinned beneath the bright-eyed gaze of Spike's father, she debated about what to say next. Wondered if she should take a sip of her tea to loosen her throat. Decided against it.

"Yes, sir," she finally admitted, at a loss as to what else to say. Wondering what exactly it meant to the older man. It wasn't like she could deny it. She'd done it, he'd _heard_ her do it, twice. "I did."

Henry nodded once, then lifted his chin from his hands and dropped them down to the tablecloth, folding them one over the other. His eyes were still steady on her face, twinkling a little in the light. Then he glanced down to his interlocked fingers and said, "He doesn't let just anyone call him Spike."

Buffy blinked at him a few times, genuinely surprised.

"Oh," she murmured, making a mental note to file that little tidbit away for later and straightening in her chair. Twisting her fingers around in her lap. She felt even more stuck than before. "I didn't…that's just how he introduced himself to me, so…it stuck." A beat. Then, on an impulse she didn't quite understand, "I don't call him that at the office."

Henry arched a dark brow. "You two spend a lot of time together outside the office?"

Buffy's eyes went wide.

"No," she said automatically, laughing in a way that might have been bordering on hysterical as she tried to cover her misstep. "No. Of course not." Then she paused, watching the older man carefully as his lips twitched into an amused half-smile. _Oh, God._

Backtracking, she gestured toward the table and added, "Well, obviously sometimes, like today we…do." Another endless beat. She made a face. "Define _a lot_."

The panic gripping her chest loosened a tiny bit when Henry's only response to her complete and utter floundering was to chuckle warmly. She watched him shift until he was leaning toward her from across the table.

Lowering his voice to a secretive murmur, he said, "Let me level with you, Buffy. Forgive me for prying here, how you spend your free time isn't any of my business…" He let the thought trail off and inhaled a deep breath, exhaled again through his nose. "But he's my son. The only one I've got. And even though he spends the majority of his time in an attempt to drive me slowly insane, I love the kid." Henry paused to let that settle in, smiling kindly at her, encouraging her to smile in return. She did. Then his expression grew more somber as he pulled his elbows off the table, leaned back in his chair and told her, "I worry about him."

Buffy wasn't sure what it was about Henry Pratt that was so singularly disarming.

What it was about him that made her want to sit beside him on the couch and listen to his stories, or ask for advice, or spill her wrenched guts all over the table and ask him to help her sort through the mess. What it was about him that gave her the abrupt and blistering need to assure him that he didn't need to be worried about her and his son, whether that particular sentiment was true or not.

She wasn't sure what it was, but it didn't stop her from immediately jumping to promise, "I know. Of course you do." She pulled her napkin up out of her lap and set it down on the table. Leaning toward him, she met his eyes as steadily and earnestly as she could. "And Mr. Pratt, honestly, I would _never_ —"

Henry sensed her sudden urgency and immediately held both his palms out to her, shaking his head. He frowned in confusion.

"Now hang on," he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. "Please, don't misunderstand me. I'm not accusing you of anything." He continued to watch her eyes carefully until she relaxed again, hoping her knee-jerk reaction hadn't given too much away. A hope that seemed to flutter out the window as soon as Henry spoke again, saying quietly, "I am, however, getting the overwhelming feeling that there's something more going on between the two of you than meets the eye."

He knew.

Of course he knew.

Henry Pratt wasn't an idiot, and he certainly wasn't deaf, dumb or blind. As much as Spike had claimed not to be ready to tell his father about the two of them, he hadn't gone overly far in attempting to hide it from him, either. While they hadn't been overly demonstrative of their true feelings in front of Henry, and definitely hadn't come close to anything of the more touchy-feely variety, there was always just a _something_ there. A low, humming kind of affection that could never quite be concealed and was _clearly_ atypical for an employer/employee relationship.

Buffy sat very still, hardly even threatening to breathe for fear of…something. She honestly wasn't sure what she was afraid of. Well, besides caving under the sheer amount of perceptiveness being leveled at her in the guise of wise, indigo eyes and spilling any and every secret either she or Spike had ever kept.

She was a little afraid of that.

Logically, she knew she couldn't tell Henry what was going on or what she really felt for his son. _Wouldn't_ tell him. That she both couldn't and also wouldn't tell him anything about what was going on between them. But she also knew she couldn't _not_ answer him. Silence here would be as damning as attempting to explain the affair that wasn't an affair.

If Henry was getting the overwhelming feeling that there was something else going on, she would just have to tell him there was something else going on.

Dropping her gaze resolutely down to Drusilla's lace tablecloth, she said softly, "That's because there is."

"There is," Henry repeated, his voice still level. Unsurprised.

It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, uh, yes. Sir." Buffy cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders, running through what it was she planned to say once more before she began. "He…Spike…is my boss. Obviously. And he's my mentor." She bit her lip and glanced down once more, feeling the small smile form unbidden. "A really, _really_ great mentor, actually. I've learned so much from him in such a short amount of time." Then, meeting Henry's eyes again, she said seriously, "But he's also my friend."

It was quiet for a minute as the older man considered her. Not exactly a tense or uncomfortable quiet, but measured, the two of them gazing at one another from across the immaculate table. Distantly, Buffy heard the sound of clattering dishes and the rush of running water from the sink that had never been turned off, effectively drowning out any other noise that might have come from the kitchen.

Finally, Henry sighed. Nodded. Smiled. Then said, "Well, I'm glad you two are friends."

Her eyebrows rose.

"You are?" she asked, the question tumbling passed her lips before she could even think if she should ask it or not.

Charmed by her genuine shock, Henry grinned knowingly and got more comfortable in his chair, folded his hands into his lap.

"In case you haven't noticed, Buffy, my son can be kind of a handful. I know that better than anyone. Poor kid somehow inherited all my worst qualities," he said thoughtfully, turning his gaze toward the kitchen, the expression on his face shifting as though remembering something very far away. Then he chuckled suddenly, twinkling azure eyes shooting back toward her. "Lucky for him, he also got all his mother's best and they seem to even each other out. But he's still not the easiest man to get along with, or to get to know."

Buffy smiled softly at him, wondering just how true that last sentiment was. Sure, she'd definitely found him…difficult to get along with. At least early on. A whole _lot_ early on. Actually, he could still be pretty tough to get along with when he put his mind to it.

Difficult was the man's middle name.

Spike was a coldly brilliant, arrogant, and demanding with a caustic wit, impossibly high expectations and a temper that sometimes got the better of him. She'd seen him let loose on a PR rep handling of one of "his" books a week or so ago and it was the first time she'd truly understood why everyone in the office seemed to walk on eggshells around him.

But he was also so tender, sweet, blindingly charismatic. And compassionate where those he loved were concerned to the point of utter self-destruction.

Which was why she found herself smiling along with Henry now as she asserted, "But he's worth it."

He smiled back, his eyes narrowing and glittering a bit brighter as he tipped his head to the side and said, "Exactly. Friends, _real_ friends, have been few and far between for him since moving here. With you around Will seems happy." That distant, solemn look flickered over his face again, a crease forming between his dark brows. "Happier than I've seen him in a long time, actually."

Buffy bit down on her bottom lip and nodded slowly, wondering if by a long time he really meant twelve years. There was a softness, a sadness in Spike's father's voice that tugged at her. Made her chest ache, not at all in the same way the icy panic had earlier. This was something else, something deeper. Something that struck a chord someplace down in her gut that she'd been actively ignoring for months now.

And suddenly she felt compelled to assure Henry of something she didn't really even understand herself.

"Mr. Pratt," she began.

"Henry," he interrupted quickly, adding another one of those dimple-baring grins. "Please."

Her chest did that aching thing again.

"Henry," Buffy repeated, smiling back. Then she shifted her own eyes toward the kitchen, listening as the water in the sink finally stopped running. Staring at the door, she murmured, "I want him to be happy, too."

She turned back just in time to see Henry's bright smile falter just a little bit. The look in his eyes, though, was nothing but completely sincere as he told her, "Then he's lucky to have you."

 ** _-Saturday, August 10th. 5:20pm-_**

"Friends?" Spike demanded, leaning forward and widening his eyes. "You told him we were _friends_."

Buffy frowned, disappointed by his reaction. "Yes, I told him we were friends."

She watched him arch a skeptical brow, asking her plaintively, "And you think he bought  
that?"

That had her pausing.

Truthfully, she hadn't really thought a whole lot about whether or not Henry had "bought" her _we're just friends_ excuse. She'd kind of just been glad in the moment to direct the conversation somewhere that didn't lead down the dark and twisty path of her admitting she and Spike were sleeping together.

"I don't know," she said now, brow furrowing as she thought it over again. "He seemed to at least. He said he was glad we were friends, so—"

"Oh, well then," Spike bit out harshly, gesturing out wide with his arms. "Problem _bloody_ solved."

Her eyes flashed.

"Hey," Buffy warned just as harshly.

Spike dropped his hands down to his sides, then seemed to reconsider and planted them on his hips instead. Sighed. And not sounding very sorry at all, he said, "I'm sorry, luv. I just…" he trailed off, sounding suddenly exhausted. He shook his head. "There's no sodding way he believed that, alright? The man's even smarter than I am."

She decided just to let that comment lie.

"Okay fine. Let's say he knows." And it was her turn to throw her hands out wide. "Great. Then you can finally tell him everything you've done for him, and he'd _know_ , and you'd be able to talk to each other about all of it and that'd be that."

Hands still on his hips, Spike's eyes shot back to hers. Voice coming out deadly and low,  
he murmured, "It's not that bloody simple and you know it."

True.

She did know that.

She was just kind of tired of knowing it.

"Maybe not," she found herself admitting, reaching up to feather a hand through her hair. She stared at the ground for a minute and shook her head. Thought about the distant  
look that had passed over Henry's face earlier, the note in his voice that had  
caused her chest to tighten. Then sighed, "But it wouldn't be the end of the world if you didn't have to lie to your dad anymore."

When she risked a glance back up, Spike's eyes were still on her face. But the expression there was no longer cold or callous, but incensed. Anger rolling off his shoulders and stretching toward her. And unlike before, it was now more than clearly directed at her.

"No," he chuckled, another clipped, bitter sound. "You wouldn't think so, would you?"

Momentarily caught off guard by the abrupt shift in conversation, Buffy took a step back. "What?"

Spike just looked at her like it should have been obvious.

"You've been pushin' for me to tell him since you found out he didn't know, Buffy," he accused dismissively, doing everything he possibly could to make her feel about two inches tall without actually stomping on her.

But instead of pushing her away, making her shrink back or skitter away or apologize like it might have before, now it only spurred her on.

Her own temper flaring to white-hot life, color flushing her cheeks, she took an impulsive step toward him. Matched the edge in his voice with one of her own. "I haven't been _pushing_ anything, and you know it. I told you, I want you to tell him for _you_ , not me."

But part of her was beginning to question the truth of that statement.

Eyes darkening in challenge, lips quirking in the mockery of a smirk, Spike asked, "And you're tellin' me you wouldn't prefer it if he knew?"

Buffy stormed across the rest of the small space between them.

"You know what, sure. Maybe I would 'prefer' it." She threw the word up in air quotes,  
enjoying the way Spike's jaw tightened and clenched a little more than she probably  
should have. "That doesn't change the fact that your father asked me point  
blank today if there was something going on between us and I looked him in the  
eye and lied." She jabbed a finger hard into his chest. "For _you_."

Spike's eyes searched hers for a second before some of the ice began to melt from the blue and his expression began to soften. His lips fell open as if to say something just as his hand came up to wrap around hers.

But Buffy wasn't having that. _Any_ of that. When he touched her she tended to go brain blank and forget her argument, and she couldn't afford to forget right now.

She pulled her hand away from his chest before he could get a grip on it, stepping back again. Needing space between them.

Narrowing her gaze to slits, she continued on in a rush. "And I don't know where you get off being angry at _me_ over all this. Can we rewind for half a second and talk about _when_ this somehow became about me?"

Spike stared at her, eyes bright and stormy still if not exactly cold. His hand was splayed open at the center of his chest, pressing into the spot her finger had been just moments before.

When he finally did speak, his voice was hard.

"Open your eyes, pet," he snapped, tearing his hand away from the now-wrinkled burgundy fabric of his shirt and glowering at her. "This has _always_ been about you."

"I didn't force you into this situation, Spike," Buffy reminded him flatly, the blood still warm in her cheeks.

"No," he agreed with a shake of his head. "You didn't. But I was doin' all right before you showed up, yeah? Sure, I was bloody well miserable but I was learnin' to live with it." He turned his back on her, hands fisted at his sides as he grit out, "I was _managing_. Knew what I'd signed up for and I was prepared to live with it. I'd _been_ livin' with it. Twelve sodding years under my belt and I thought I'd finally gotten a handle on this." He spun back to her then, pointing his own hard, accusatory finger and hissing, "And then _you_ show up out of bloody nowhere and make me want all the things I'd finally given up on."

Buffy held her ground in the face of the fire in his eyes.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," she said heatedly, her eyes never wavering from  
his.

"It's an _impossible_ thing, Buffy," Spike shouted, the sudden volume of his voice making her jump, the tray holding several glass tumblers at the center of his bookshelf clatter. Either completely oblivious to the agitation he was causing her, or maybe just not caring, he reached out and gripped her around the upper arms. Tugged her forward, bent down to meet her eyes. "Something's gotta give here and I don't have the slightest fucking clue what."

Buffy blinked at him a few times, unsure of what to say. Spike didn't seem to have much to say, either.

So they just stared at each other.

Bare inches between their faces, seemingly less between their lips, an energy like a livewire sparked between them. It was all too familiar to Buffy. The same passion that they'd built the foundation of their relationship on, that had guided them to where they were, but flipped on its head. Twisted and turned around in the face of what Buffy realized was their first fight. Their first real, we're a real couple with real problems and real tempers type fight. She felt that passion now, the familiar heat that was always there, always pulsing just below the surface and that pulled her to him in spite of the fact that she couldn't decide in the moment if she wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him breathless or slap him hard across the face.

For his part, Spike seemed to be having a very similar struggle.

And that was when Buffy decided she loved him.

It was a majorly bizarre time to decide something like that. Or…to recognize it, she figured. She knew that. Even through the haze of her anger and the slightly discomforting lust that accompanied it, she knew that. And it was so totally not the warm and fuzzy experience she'd been envisioning. But all of that seemed to matter zero to nth degree as she gazed at up him, a cool blaze in his eyes that she was certain was reflected back in her own. Because she loved him. God, it was so there, and it was so strong, and it was so huge…and because of that it rocked her.

All the way down to her toes.

She needed to leave.

Reaching up to put her palms on his chest, she took a step back, pushing him lightly away at the same time. And when she spoke, her voice was gentle.

"I think I should go."

The shift happened on a proverbial dime.

The narrowed azure eyes that had long since turned to a deep, navy blue widened again, warmed over. Dark lashes fluttered against angled cheeks. Remorse stole over his features. She turned from him just as he dropped both hands from her arms and reached for hand instead.

"Buffy," he said her name almost reverently, a tinge of panic touching his voice now where before there had been mostly anger. His fingers weaved through hers and he tugged, waiting for her to turn her eyes to him again before adding, "Wait, please—"

"It's okay," Buffy told him, cutting him off with a small shake of her head and surprising  
herself a little by just how much she meant it. With her own ability to recognize that this wasn't the time or place for any declarations of love, not when she'd only just realized and not when literally two seconds ago she'd have sooner smacked him than kissed him. She squeezed his hand once before letting it go, turning to pick up her purse and her bag and saying, " _We're_ okay. I just think I'm making things worse by being here right now instead of better, so I'm just...gonna go."

And Spike surprised them both a little by letting her, only stopping her once by calling her name as she reached his door. And only then, it was to offer her a gentle sounding, "I'll see you Monday."

Buffy nodded, then turned and left.

 ** _-Sunday, August 11th. 7:45pm-_**

It wasn't Monday when Buffy saw Spike again.

She wasn't sure she was even that surprised when the knock sounded on her apartment door only fifteen minutes after Faith had left for work. Spike knew the other girl's weekend schedule as well as Buffy herself did by this point, so not only was she not surprised by the knock, but she also didn't bother to look through the small peep hole before throwing the deadbolt and pulling open the door.

Spike stood there in her hallway gazing down at her with warm eyes, wearing a pair of worn in jeans, a black cotton V-neck and a shamefaced expression that cause an instant ache in her on some deep, cellular level.

His hands were stuffed in his pockets.

And she loved him.

Looking sheepish, he pulled one hand out of his pocket and reached it around to cup the back of his neck. Voice quiet, he asked, "Can I…"

"Sure," Buffy said quickly, not needing to let him finish before she was holding the door open wider and sliding to the left, allowing him space to enter the apartment. He slipped inside, their eyes meeting briefly as he moved passed her and on into the small living space. She could feel his eyes on her back as she shut the door again, locking it before turning to face him. Leaning until her back was pressed to the flat of door, she met Spike's steady gaze and held it.

She opened her mouth and said, "I need to tell you something" just as Spike moved to tell her, "I have something to say."

They eyed each other, both breaking into small smiles and awkward, tense laughter. A tiny crack in the ice that felt stretched between them, the uneasy truce of two lovers who knew unmistakably they were about to make up.

"You first," Buffy said, gesturing toward him deferentially.

Hers could wait.

Spike stood a little straighter and nodded, taking the time to pull in a deep inhale through his nose. Then he dropped his eyes to the floor, wet his lips like he was nervous, met her gaze again and murmured, "I'm sorry."

The amount of sincerity in those two tiny words could have knocked her over. Pushing herself off the door, she gave into the magnetic pull toward him and took a step forward.

"Me too," she told him truthfully, though she wasn't exactly sure herself what she was apologizing for. Whether it was for how the conversation had gone between them the day before, or for how she'd dealt with his father. Or for not telling him how she felt about him…for _still_ not telling him.

Maybe all three.

It didn't seem to matter much to Spike either way, because as soon as the words had left her lips he was crossing the space between them, moving to wrap his arms around her waist. He paused when he reached her though, backtracking, like he was suddenly uncertain whether or not he was allowed to touch her.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Buffy," he told her sincerely, still looking like he didn't quite know what to do with his hands. At a loss, frustrated, he reached up and ran one roughly through his hair. "Jesus, you've never been the one doin' anything wrong here."

She was pretty sure that wasn't true.

But instead of jumping down that particular rabbit hole, she simply said, "It's okay."

"It isn't," Spike insisted, pulling his hand away from the platinum curls and sighing. He stared at her for a moment before lifting it to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, sweeping his thumb over her cheek. "I wasn't fair to you yesterday. You didn't deserve that."

Buffy leaned her cheek further into his hand, the coils wrapped tight in her chest loosening with every brush of his thumb. Sighing, relieved that things seemed to be smoothing over, she said, "You were mad about being ambushed, which was totally fair. You didn't need to take it out on _me_ ," she added, offering him a small smile to let him know she was only teasing, "But tensions were all high and…tense. I get it."

But instead of agreeing with her, Spike merely shook his head. The same distant look in his blue eyes that she'd seen in his father's the day before. "It's more than that though, innit?" he asked, the question obviously a rhetorical one. Gaze focused on her face, scanning it, memorizing it, he said quietly, "I don't expect you to understand—"

And just like that, the coils in Buffy's chest snapped back in place. Henry's words about his son being difficult to get to know ringing in her ears, sticking in her brain and echoing there like they'd been doing since late the night before.

True, it had been all too easy for her to acknowledge that Spike wasn't the easiest person to get along with…but then she'd begun to wonder if she'd found him particularly difficult to get to know. He'd seemed more than willing to share information with her that first night at the bar, telling her about his job, how he worked for his dad, where he was from and the bet he'd lost that had landed him with the signature peroxide curls. And even after that, after those first initial weeks working for him, he hadn't put up any real fuss about letting her in. Telling her about his mom. And sure, it had taken a little poking and prodding on her part, but he'd eventually told her all about Cecily, and the prenup, and the predicament he felt his marriage had put his family in.

And then it had hit her all at once, and she'd remembered he'd only told her about any of that _after_ Drusilla had forced his hand. Which had led her down the dangerous path of wondering how long he might have waited to tell her otherwise.

Would she know even now?

Would he have continued to keep her sheltered from the harsh realities he was facing, the way he still seemed to want to keep her locked safe and secure away from his legal proceedings now?

 _I don't expect you to understand._

"Maybe that's the problem, Spike," she sighed, pulling her head out of his hand as she cut him off and stepped around him. "You don't expect me to understand so you don't even bother trying to explain things to me." She stepped toward the couch then whirled back around, shaking her head as she did. Frustrated. _Remembering_ she was frustrated. "You play everything all poker faced and close to your chest and…I'm running out of card playing metaphors, but you get the point." Spike had stepped toward her, but Buffy'd already thrown her hand up, palm out, to stop him. "You keep me at arm's length when it comes to anything _actually_ having to do with the prenup or the future of our relationship, o-or if we even _have_ a future, or…"

His eyes snapped back to attention, a little wider than they'd been a moment ago as he interrupted her. "You've been thinkin' about our future?"

Buffy froze where she stood and blinked a couple times.

Oh.

Oops.

That had just sort of…slipped out. Was she supposed to tell him she loved him before admitting to the future thinking? Did it matter?

At this point, she was willing to bet the answer was probably not.

Steeling herself, she filled her lungs up and sighed, admitting on the exhale, "Of course I have. Of _course_ I've wondered where this is going. If it's going anywhere at all. If you…" … _love me_. She bit back on the sentiment before it could slip out, choosing instead to let the sentence hang in the air unfinished. She cleared her throat and glanced away, glanced back. "But you don't talk to me."

If Spike could read what it was she'd been about to say, he didn't show it. Just gazed at her steadily, a crease forming between his brows.

"I talk to you, pet," he said earnestly, his voice very low. Glittering eyes searching hers. "I've always been open with you."

And she could tell that he believed he really had been. Which he had, to a degree. Except for the whole failing to tell her he was a married man thing, sure. He'd been open with her. He'd been open with her about his intentions toward her. About his intentions for her work. About his _desire_ for her.

"About everything _but_ this," Buffy told him now, unable to keep her voice even as she'd hoped to. "You have these all day meetings and tense phone calls and super-secret e-mails with Lilah but you never really tell me what they're about, besides some vague loophole that she may or may not have found." She began pacing, wearing a path in front of her coffee table. "So I'm stuck in the middle with you and your family, all out-of-the-loophole girl, and I that's when I end up feeding your dad some crap about us being 'just friends', which, you were right," she turned toward him with a sharp look, "he _totally_ knew was a lie."

"So you knew he didn't buy it?" Spike asked, his eyes fixed to her with rapt attention as she moved back and forth.

Buffy stopped pacing.

"He's your _dad_ , Spike," she said pointedly, exasperated. "He knows when you're unhappy. Just like he knows when you _are_ happy." She dropped her hands down to her sides and sighed. "He said he saw that I made you happy."

Spike smiled then, seemingly helpless to stop it as he told her, "Probably because you do."

Her cheeks warmed.

"Well I guess…that's something," she finished softly as she turned toward him, her brain going a little fuzzy as she found herself suddenly caught up in the way he was looking at her.

Eyes fixed to her face, he stepped closer. "That's everything."

But it wasn't, and Buffy knew it wasn't, whether he quite realized it himself or not. Because if that was it, if her making him happy was all it took for them to be together, then…well, she had to at least assume if that really were the case then they'd _be_ together by now. In a together way other than the way they already were. A more…permanent way.

A way that didn't require sneaking around and lying to loved ones and always being just a little bit on edge.

The sharp twinge of jealousy Buffy had felt for Cordelia and Xander earlier in the week came raging back, blazing bright behind her eyes as she shook her head and told Spike pointedly, "But it's _not._ It's not everything, and that's…totally okay." She surprised herself again a little by how much she meant that, but ignored it, pushing on before he could interrupt. "I know your career is important. I know the company is important. I know your relationship with your dad is _so_ important."

Spike smirked at her. "Sensin' a theme here."

"Will you let me finish?" Buffy demanded, planting her hands on her hips. Waiting for him to close his mouth and nod before she continued. "I _understand_ more about this than you think. I understand where you're coming from. I get that you want to try and find a way to have everything somehow magically work out for everyone, and I get that that's...going to take some maneuvering. And some time." A beat. Her hands fell tiredly from her hips. "But this whole thing isn't exactly a picnic for me, either."

Spike waited an extended beat before speaking again, probably in an effort to make sure she was in fact finished this time before hurrying to assure her, "I know that. And I _will_ tell my father, pet. I'm just askin' for a little more time, like you said." He cocked his head to the side and lowered his voice to a coaxing timbre. "A little more time to get my house in order before things go completely pear-shaped."

But he was missing the point.

"You don't even know why I'm upset, Spike."

He smirked knowingly. "You tryin' to tell me that little row we had yesterday was about something other than when I come clean to Henry?"

"I'm _trying_ to tell you that I care less about when or even if you tell your dad and more about what you putting off telling your dad _really_ means," she said flatly, watching as her words settled on heavily on his shoulders.

It was the first time she'd said it out loud, the first time she'd been willing to admit it to anyone other than herself. Out loud, in the light of day. And she wasn't sure yet whether it was making her feel better or worse. More in control or less.

But it was a real concern. It was what had really upset her yesterday, and today, the more and more time she'd given to thinking about what Henry'd had to say.

Spike's smirk melted off his face. "You think I'm avoiding the subject because I don't actually plan on tellin' him."

The fact that it wasn't a question struck a chord with Buffy, and she could practically hear it in her head. The two follow up statements that hung thick and heavy between them now.

 _Because I don't actually plan on being with you._

 _Because I don't actually plan on leaving her._

Buffy stood there and stared at the ground, fiddling with the garnet cross at her throat as she nodded slowly. God, it's not like it'd be the first time that had happened. It already had all the makings of your classic girl meets married boy and gets in way over her head and ends up heartbroken when he decides the reward isn't worth the risk he's taking. Tale as old as time. Only this time, there seemed to be a lot more stacked on the side of risk than on the side of reward. True, there was almost nothing about her relationship with Spike and an honest to God affair. When she was with him she felt like she was where she'd been designed to be. Like she fit there. And she had the added bonus of knowing, unequivocally, that Spike's feelings for her were wholly and entirely different than his feelings for his wife.

Unfortunately, she also had the insight to see that he had more to lose than most men in similar positions. And with him being all ultra avoidy with the supposedly imminent telling of his dad, the fact that he might still be weighing his options seemed like a totally logical concern for her to have.

Though if the horrified expression on Spike's face was any indication, he wasn't even near the vicinity of agreeing with her.

"Buffy." He said slowly, like he was trying his best not to spook her. "Sweetheart." He stepped into her personal space and reached out, very gently taking her elbows in his hands. Ducking his head to meet her eyes. "You wanna walk things back about a hundred paces and explain to me what it is exactly that's givin' you that _insane_ idea?"

His words, and the abject sincerity behind them, relaxed her instantly. He was genuinely horrified by the idea, by the idea that she'd even considered the possibility.

Still, she raised a skeptical brow and muttered, "Because that's such an insane idea."

"Flat out, bug shagging crazy," Spike said, not missing a beat. "Yeah."

Her body began to tingle.

"It's not that crazy," Buffy argued, less because she didn't believe him and more because she realized he was just starting to tell her the things she'd been dying to hear for what seemed like ages now.

"Yeah, luv," he promised. "It is. I pursued _you_." His hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, long fingers threading through her hair as he tilted his head to the side. "Or have you forgotten?"

Buffy tilted her own head to the side, mirroring his position to say softly, "That doesn't mean you won't wake up one morning and realize you've made a horrible mistake and risked everything for a quick shag with your intern."

Spike's eyes flashed once, narrowed a little as he recognized she was teasing him. Throwing his callous words from the day before back in his face. "Easy," he corrected her, rubbing soothingly at the base of her skull with his fingertips. " _Easy_ shag, not quick."

Buffy laughed.

Spike did too. Then he pulled his hand out of her hair, sliding it over her shoulder and down her arm before finding her fingers, turning them so they were entwined with his. He squeezed her hand once. "What can I do to prove to you I'm not about to give up on us and turn tail and run back to my miserable marriage?"

She squeezed his hand back. "You could start by letting me in a little."

Spike perked a brow, a slow smirk curving the left side of his mouth.

"Hear that?" He mused, pausing for dramatic effect as he turned his head to the side. "That's the distant sound of glass houses shattering."

She frowned, the lightness from a moment ago weighed down again.

"That's different," Buffy said, attempting to tug her hand out of Spike's grasp. But he just held tighter, using his grip to pull her closer to him.

"Don't rightly see how."

Giving into the pressure he applied to her hand, she went toward him. Allowed him to rest his free hand at the small of her back. Tipped her head back so she could maintain contact with his eyes and said, " _Yes_ , okay, I keep certain things to myself. It's just…I just do. But those things don't have anything to do with us directly." Fixing him with a meaningful look, she searched his eyes with hers. Lowered her voice. "It's a little hard for me to want to bare my soul to you when I don't _really_ know if you're in this with me."

Well, there it was.

Buffy figured that was about as gauntlet-y as she could feasibly get without stepping fully into ultimatum territory. And she didn't want to be in ultimatum territory, anyway. That felt way too desperate. Too dirty mistress. She didn't want Spike to tell her things or lay bare his each and every feeling or to open up to her about the particulars of the systematic destruction of his marriage if he wasn't ready. If he didn't really want to. But she couldn't shake the feeling that they were at a crossroads now, and while she believed him when he said her concerns over him chickening out were baseless, it didn't mean she was willing to confess her own big, huge, paradigm shifting feelings for him before she knew if there was a reason to.

They held like that for a moment, each of them feeling like they were at a stalemate, before he sighed and released his hold on her. Took a couple steps backward.

Then it was his turn to pace.

Buffy watched from her position in front of the coffee table as Spike moved in a quick, straight path back and forth in front of her entertainment center. He was clearly thinking painfully hard about something, his hand shooting up to run through his hair over and over again until nearly all the curls were pulled loose. They were in artful disarray all over his head, one errant one falling forward over his forehead. The picture he suddenly painted reminding her so exactly of the night they first met that she stepped toward him. Opened her mouth to tell him.

Spike beat her to it, freezing in place and turning toward her.

"How's this for letting you in, then?" And a second later he was there, standing directly in front of her with bright eyes and a voice so sweet it nearly hurt her ears as he whispered, "I'm falling in love with you."

Buffy froze in front of him, eyes wide.

Wait.

Wasn't that her line?

Blinking once, long and slow, she managed to ask, "You're what now?"

Misunderstanding her question, Spike backpedalled. Just a little.

"It's too soon to say it, I know," he murmured, continuing on halfway as though she hadn't spoken at all. His eyes trailing all along her face; tracing her brow bone, her nose, her lips. He inhaled, voice gravelly and low. "Not fair to you either, I suspect, springin' it on you like this. And after an argument, no less." He chuckled. "Probably sounds like a line."

"Is it?" she asked bluntly.

Spike answered without a moment's hesitation. "No." Shook his head. "Foolish, sure. And bloody selfish. But no." His eyes found hers again, and he smiled. "Not a line."

And Buffy believed him.

Was powerless to do anything but.

"You're falling in love with me," she repeated his words, trying them out. Rolling them around on her tongue and enjoying the way they felt. They warmed her all over, a tingle shooting down her spine as a slow, delighted smile curved her lips.

Spike nodded, his own smile matching hers. "Think I have been since I first met you, lookin' all doe-eyed and innocent and _completely_ out of place at that dive of a bar. Told me you hated carrots and the bloody Beatles and as daft as I thought that was I knew right then you were somethin' that wouldn't be easy to shake." He placed his palm flat to her cheek again. "Thrown me for quite the loop, you have."

 _Yay._

"The good kind?" she asked.

"The best kind," Spike said earnestly, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he smiled again and making them do the dancing thing she'd first noticed about him.

Buffy stood there looking up at him, just reading what she saw there in his eyes for a moment before turning her head and pressing a kiss to heel of his hand. She reached up to pull it away from her cheek and said, "But."

"I'm not ready to let everythin' else go to pieces just yet," he filled in for her, giving voice to what they both already knew. To the answer he'd given her so many times before, but that their conversation had given new life to. "Not until I've exhausted every bleeding possibility there is. Twelve years of livin' this way, thinking this way, can't be undone in two months."

That had her frowning, the phrasing having put things into perspective in a way Buffy hadn't really considered before. Two months really was nothing in the big scheme of things, or in the massive scheme of a twelve-year marriage where you stand to lose everything you've ever worked for if you leave. Of course he was feeling pressure, and of course he was hesitating. He knew his father far better than she did, knew that when he did tell him about Cecily that it was going to change everything.

So yeah. She could give him more time. More patience. More support.

 _He was falling in love with her._

Suddenly overwhelmed with a sharp, urgent need to wrap herself in his arms and kiss him until her mouth went numb, Buffy bit down on the corner of her lip. Raised her eyebrows, deliberately bating him when she asked, " _But_?"

And easily recognizing what she was doing, Spike chuckled.

"But," he repeated, lowering his voice to a gravelly purr. "I'm not goin' anywhere, luv. I'm in this with you."

Satisfied, she stepped forward and took his face between her hands. Pulling his mouth down to hers, she kissed him with an aching tenderness, a desire to show him all the things she hadn't yet said flooding her chest and loosening the coils as it went.

Spike's lips moved over hers just as tenderly at first, then more hungrily as it became clear he felt free now to grab for her. He looped his arms tight around her waist and tugged her against him. Buffy slid her hands away from his cheeks; wound her arms around his neck. And the kiss that had started off so soft and slow and grew more frenetic, more burning as the seconds ticked by; the fevered kind of kisses that only come after a fight. The frantic push and pull of lovers who never quite have enough time.

Buffy had just threaded her fingers up into the messy curls at the nape of Spike's neck when he suddenly pulled away. He smiled down at her, his eyes dark with lust and undisguised craving even as he exhaled and said, "I have to go, pet."

He brushed a last, quick kiss over her forehead and let go of her.

Stunned, her mouth buzzing and numb, she blinked for a few seconds before she realized Spike was already halfway to her front door. Buffy forced herself to move, stumbling after him on unsteady legs until she reached his arm. Grabbing hold of it, she pulled him back around to face her.

"You're leaving?" she asked, not waiting for him to respond before she leaned up to claim his lips again.

Spike's arms were back around her waist in an instant.

She felt the familiar rumble of his chuckle against her; the warm vibration pulsating into her chest, into her mouth, as he kissed her back all too happily. When he pulled back again, it was only just slightly.

Smiling against her lips, he murmured, "It's a school night, pet."

He didn't sound overly concerned about that fact.

"Right," Buffy said, nodding against him. "I knew that." She kissed him again, a quick, playful peck. "You have to go."

"I have to go," he half-heartedly agreed, then used his grip on her waist to spin them around. Swallowed her small squeal of surprise with another searing sweep of his tongue as he pressed her back into the cool of her door. Pulling away one more time, resting his forehead against hers, he sounded deliciously breathless when he rumbled, "Or I could stay."

Buffy hardly had to think about it at all.

Settling her hands at the V-neck of his t-shirt, she nodded. "Or you could stay."

 ** _Thursday, August 15th. 8:05am_**

"Do you have your boarding pass?" Buffy asked absently, cradling her phone between her shoulder and her chin as she put together her outfit for the day.

On the other end of the line, Dawn was getting restless. "Yes, unless it's found a way to wiggle out of my purse and toward the trashcan since the last time you asked me. Two minutes ago."

"Hey," Buffy scolded teasingly, pulling a silky green blouse out of her closet and moving to lay it on the bed beside today's chosen pencil skirt. "Just trying to be thorough here. Clothes for the office?"

"Even though I'm still not sure why I have to dress up to be there for like, half a day." Her little sister sighed. "It's not like _I_ work there."

She stepped into the skirt and wiggled it over her hips, managing to keep the phone in place as she said, "Because you love me and want to make a good impression on my co-workers?"

"You mean your boss."

Buffy grinned to herself and cast an eye toward her bathroom, to the shirtless platinum blonde standing in front of the mirror. "Him, too." Spike caught her eye through the open doorway and smiled, both hands working to tame his curls. Blushing in spite of herself, she fastened her skirt and directed her attention back to Dawn. "Speaking of which, do you have a dress for dinner tomorrow?"

"And it's even a nice one," Dawn muttered, and Buffy could practically feel her little sister rolling her eyes. "I still think it's weird your boss is taking us out to dinner, by the way."

Buffy didn't have an immediate response to that. Mostly because she really had to agree.

Of course, she knew Dawn well enough to know she'd spot something amiss from about a million miles away. The likelihood that her too smart for her own good sister would even still be under the impression that it was just her boss taking them out to dinner Friday by the time they actually went to dinner Friday was slimmer than slim to none at best.

"He's just…being nice," she said, dodging the issue all together and threading first her left arm through the silky blouse, then the right, switching the phone from one shoulder to the other as needed. "That's all."

"Nice," the younger Summers chuckled, the creak of the leather airport chair sounding over the line as she reclined back. "That's a word for it."

"Dawn," Buffy warned, but her voice was still light. It was impossible not for her to feel light this morning. She and Spike had had a nice, totally romantic evening together the night before, and her little sister was coming today.

In the bathroom, Spike was finishing doing up the buttons on his silvery grey shirt when he caught her eye again and winked, causing Buffy to smile, her cheeks to go hot.

It was impossible not to be light.

She began doing up the buttons on her own top.

"Nice enough to get into your pants is more like it. Speaking of which," Dawn lowered her voice conspiratorially, no doubt covering her mouth so she could speak covertly into the receiver, "when will the elusive secret lover be making an appearance this weekend?"

Right on cue, said secret lover came up behind her and planted his hands on her hips. Planted a lingering and inappropriately amorous kiss to her cheek. Then stepped away to snatch his tie from where it hung from one of her bedposts.

Dodging the issue again, Buffy grabbed the phone, freeing her chin in the process and asking, "Did you pack comfy walking shoes for Saturday?"

"Why don't I just send you a picture of my suitcase and you can triple check this all yourself?" Dawn countered, exasperated.

Buffy rolled her eyes and stepped up one at a time into her heels. "You'll thank me when you get here and don't have to borrow my underwear."

She noticed Spike's scarred brow shoot up even though he wasn't looking at her, the corner of his mouth inching upward seductively as he looped the knot of his tie with expert fingers. Buffy watched him work, wondering when all this had started to feel so incredibly routine.

He'd spent the night at her apartment four different "school nights" so far that week, every night since the Sunday night he'd admitted he was falling in love with her. Which…meant he'd spent the night at her apartment every night that week. He'd actually stayed long enough to get ready at her apartment twice.

Three times, if today counted.

Which it did.

She'd expressed her usual Buffy of the level head concern initially, but Spike had promised her multiple times that this week of all weeks was as good as any to be a little lenient with the rules. Besides the fact, as he pointed out a little too frequently, that they wouldn't be able to see each other like this when Dawn was in town…a fact that had been entirely too convincing in and of itself, he'd also shared with her that Cecily was currently out of town.

Not just out of town, but out of country. In England, supposedly, visiting her parents or something. She wasn't one hundred percent sure, she'd started tuning it out after the initial "Cecily's in another country" part.

No, so it hadn't taken all that much convincing to begin with…but that little fun fact certainly hadn't hurt.

Seated at the airport terminal in LAX, Dawn sighed wistfully into the phone, snapping Buffy's attention back to their conversation.

"Like that'd be the worst thing ever," she was muttering. "You have cute underwear."

"I know," Buffy breezed in return, noting the rapidly darkening gaze Spike turned on her as he finished the knot and tightened the striped purple silk at his throat. She concentrated on ignoring him, moving instead to her dresser and flipping her phone unthinkingly on speaker as she reached for a pair of earrings. "Are you sure you have your boarding pass?"

"Buffy," Dawn groaned.

She smiled into her small mirror, affixing a pearl post on her right ear and resisting the urge to taunt the younger girl about how it feels to be constantly fretted over. "Just check one more time."

"God," her sister muttered, a rustling sound now coming across the line as she rummaged through her bag. "You're worse than Giles."

At the sound of her stepfather's name, Buffy froze. Fingers at her ear, she sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath through her nose. Her eyes zeroed in on Spike through the reflection of her mirror as she hoped desperately he hadn't noticed.

He'd noticed.

Azure gaze steady on hers in the mirror, brow furrowed, he watched her with an unspoken but obvious question in his eyes. Meanwhile, the rustling continued over the line, filling her bedroom with ambient noise until Dawn finally spoke again. "And…yep, there they are. Boarding passes for _both_ flights." She sighed loudly, but good-naturedly. "I'm eighteen years old Buffy, not eight. I have everything. Now will you relax?"

"I'll relax when you get here," Buffy said quickly, fixing the clasp on her left earring and grabbing the cell phone back up.

She'd flipped it off speaker and pressed it to her ear just in time to hear Dawn saying, "Only a short eight hours from now. You're picking me up, right?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," she told her, turning back around to face Spike head on. He was still staring with a furrowed brow and the slightest frown. Buffy stared back. "Travel safe, please."

Oblivious to the sudden tension crackling between the two blondes on the other end of the line, Dawn laughed and said, "I'll do what I can. Love you."

Buffy looked away from Spike.

"Love you, too," she said, waiting for her sister to hang up before pulling the phone away from her ear.

The room was eerily silent for a long moment before Spike cleared his throat, driving Buffy's attention back toward him.

She was still frozen to the spot.

"Everything okay, pet?" he asked tentatively, reading the expression on her face and tilting his head to the side as he approached her. Slowly, carefully, like she was a wounded animal. "You look spooked."

Buffy nodded just as slowly as he was moving. And then answered him honestly, in the interest of being…well, honest. "There's some definite spookage happening."

She was more than definitely wigged.

The funny part was, she wasn't sure exactly _why_ she was wigging.

Maybe because she was afraid Spike would ask her why she'd had such a weird reaction to her little sister mentioning a name, and then she'd have to tell him who that name was attached to.

Which would mean her having to explain her parent's messy divorce, and how she had no relationship with her father, and how Giles had been the only father figure she'd ever really had in her life. How they'd been almost pathetically close, but they hadn't spoken in months because they'd had this massive falling out after her mom had died.

Which would mean she'd have to explain to Spike about how her mom had died.

Which would mean…well, she wasn't sure exactly. But for whatever reason, at that particular moment, it didn't sound like something she was ready to do.

"You wanna—?"

"No," Buffy answered automatically, the word out as quickly as she'd managed to wrap her head around it. "I don't. I…no." She shook her head and tried to ignore the clear-cut frustration in his eyes as she added, "Not yet."

It grew quiet in her bedroom again. Spike raised his head again, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth and nodding slowly.

"Tell you what," he said softly, fishing a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and handing it to her. "You take the cab today and I'll walk. I'll see you at the office." Then he turned away from her and strode purposefully toward her bedroom door.

He was disappointed in her. She could see he was disappointed. Here they'd been making so much progress and she was backtracking already at the slightest hint of a subject she didn't feel prepared to share with him. She was shying away from him, or running away from him, or whatever it was he used to say she was doing whenever she got like this early on. And she had enough presence of mind to recognize that the double standard she'd set for them wasn't exactly fair.

He was disappointed.

And this time, it killed her.

Biting down on her bottom lip, closing her eyes, Buffy winced. Made a spur of the moment decision and opened her eyes again. Called his name.

Spike paused in the doorway, both hands braced on either side of it as he turned to meet her eyes over his shoulder. He stared at her, disappointment warring with what looked to her like a need to comfort her. Like he was thinking about something. Then he seemed to make a decision and stepped back into her bedroom, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck and pulling her to him for a gentle kiss.

A lengthy moment later, he stepped back.

"When you're ready," he told her quietly, beginning to pull his hand away from her neck.

Buffy reached up to wrap her hand around his wrist, staying his hand before he could pull it entirely away and offering him a grateful smile.

It looked like he was giving her more time, too.


	20. Chapter 20

**_-Thursday, August 15th. 4:30pm-_**

Faith stood on her tiptoes and scanned the crowd in front of them, squinting her eyes out into the throng.

"So what are we looking for here exactly?" She asked, dropping back down flat on her heels and glancing to her right. "A bitty Buffy?"

"Sure," Buffy agreed, scanning the crowd herself. "Except Dawn's actually taller than me. And not blonde." She turned her eyes away from the crowd to smile wryly at her roommate. "Thanks for coming, by the way."

"No problem," the brunette responded, reaching her hands up to hook them casually behind her head as she continued to scan the people milling around the airport lobby. "I was looking for a fun filled way to spend the afternoon. Besides," she added with a shrug, "you can never have too many 'I Heart Boston' mugs."

Buffy laughed at the pointed look her roommate was giving the giant mug that she'd bought from the gift shop and subsequently stuffed into her bag as an ironic welcome present for her little sister, rolling her eyes but still chuckling when she turned her attention back to search for the tell-tale ponytail of thick chestnut hair she was looking for.

She spotted it a second later, the younger girl's insanely long legs making her easily recognizable through the crowd as soon as she emerged from around the corner.

"Oh, there she is." Buffy stood up as high as she could on her tiptoes, using one hand to wave to her sister and the other to hoist the little welcome sign she'd thrown together into the air as she called, "Dawnie." Then waved again as she finally caught her eye, smiling. "Over here."

"Oh my God," Dawn chuckled, smiling widely as she reached Buffy and immediately went to wrap her arms around her. Squeezed tightly. "You have a sign and everything."

"A sign, a hug _and_ a gift shop souvenir," she agreed, squeezing her little sister back just as tightly before letting go and stepping back so she could see her face. "The whole welcome package, complete with welcome party."

"I noticed," Dawn said, turning pale blue eyes on the brunette standing beside Buffy. She smiled again. "Hey, you must be Faith."

Faith's own lips quirked up at the sides and she raised a brow. "What gave it away?"

"The tattoo," Dawn said immediately, then paused. Shrugged. "And the crazy eyes."

A beat passed.

Then the brunette threw her head back and burst into a long, loud laugh.

"Get a load of the littlest Summers, B," she said, still laughing as she stepped to the side and gave the younger girl a gentle nudge in the shoulder with her elbow. Then she folded her arms over her chest and appraised her, saying, "I like you already."

Buffy smiled briefly at the two of them, then moved directly into over-bearing big sister mode. Turned her attention to the carry-on duffle bag Dawn had strapped over her shoulder and frowned. Pointing down to it, she asked, "Is that all you brought?"

"Yep," Dawn said, reaching back to place her hand on the duffle for emphasis. At Buffy's deepening frown, she sighed and rolled her eyes. "What, we don't all pack for a weekend like we're going away to summer camp."

Buffy ignored the not so subtle but very Dawn-like jab, letting the little makeshift sign slap against her thigh. "I knew you'd forget something."

Dawn deadpanned, "I didn't _forget_ anything, Buffy. I have it all right here." She tapped the bag once more for good measure, giving her sister a wry half-smirk. "I just packed the essentials instead of my entire closet."

"Smart move," Faith quipped, ignoring her roommate's narrow eyed glance and reaching a hand out to grip the shoulder strap of Dawn's bag. Hoisting it up onto her own shoulder. "Here, let me."

Once Dawn had promised Buffy a few more times that she had no other luggage, and that she also hadn't forgotten anything, the three girls began maneuvering their way back through the busy airport. Walking back through the main lobby, Faith leading the way, they absently chatted about how the flight had been and what the general plans were for the evening. When they finally reached the front doors, Faith disappeared out onto the sidewalk to secure a taxi for their ride home.

"Hey," Dawn said, swinging around, throwing her arm around her older sister's neck and squeezing again. "I kind of missed you."

Falling into the pull of her sister's arm, Buffy chuckled. Whatever brief tension had cropped up between them melted away, and she chuckled.

"I kind of missed you, too," she said back, reaching up to put her hand on top of her sister's and glancing toward her. "I'm really glad you're here."

"Me, too." Dawn agreed, letting her arm slip back from around Buffy's neck a moment later when her phone started ringing. Digging it out of her purse, taking a half second to eye the name on her screen, she quickly put it to her ear and answered brightly, "Hey, Giles."

Buffy felt her shoulders tense.

She ignored them, turning to ask Faith how much she thought the taxi would cost to get them back to their apartment even though she already knew. Doing her best to tune out the conversation going on beside her.

Dawn was still talking, animatedly discussing her flight to the man on the other end of the line. "…but it was fine. Not only safe but also sound, if you can believe it. Yep, I did…yeah, she's right here." Dawn turned toward Buffy, both eyebrows raised in an expectant expression, and Buffy knew without needing to ask what it was her step-father was asking about. Stealing herself, she quickly shook her head, watching the disappointment cross her younger sister's face as she did. Sounding decidedly less enthusiastic now, she directed her attention back to the phone and said, "Sorry Giles, she actually just stepped outside."

Buffy's gut twisted.

She ignored it, moving to stand closer to the wide automatic doors with Faith.

"Sure," Dawn continued, nodding absently. "Yeah, I know. I will." A pause, her eyes finding Buffy's as she said, "We love you, too. Bye." Then she pulled the phone away from her ear and shoved it back down into her purse. Then she plastered a bright smile onto her face, crossed the small space between them, linked her arm with Buffy's and asked, "So, what's on the agenda? And by that I really mean can there _please_ be food on the agenda because I'm starved."

 ** _-Friday August 16th. 11:30am-_**

As it turned out, Dawn had in fact forgotten something.

Namely, the business casual clothing Buffy had reminded her three separate times to bring so that she wouldn't end up sitting inside Pratt Publishing in shorts and a tank top. Much like she'd been planning on doing, until Buffy had successfully convinced her to borrow some of her own work clothes for the day. The dress was just a little too short on the younger girl, but that hadn't seemed to bother anyone too much.

Least of all the "too cute for words" marketing intern Cordelia had made it her personal mission to introduce Dawn to.

Buffy was in the process of answering a few more pressing e-mails and Dawn was engaged in a lively conversation with Cordelia, what had initially begun as a discussion about the day to day operations of Pratt but had quickly devolved into a discussion about said marketing intern, when Buffy's desk phone rang.

The little red button lit up beside W.H. Pratt.

Keenly aware of the sudden lull in the previously animated conversation beside her, and even more keenly aware of the pair of shrewd blue eyes that had just re-focused on her profile, she cleared her throat and reached for the phone, answering in her most professionally voice.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Pratt?" she asked, sitting up a little straighter in her desk chair.

Spike's answer came immediately, smooth as honey on the other end of the line. "What did I tell you about answerin' the phone like that, pet?"

His voice made her smile. It was an involuntary, unbidden response, but one she couldn't seem to do anything about. She hadn't seen him since she'd left the office yesterday afternoon, and he hadn't so much as texted her in the time they'd been apart. In the time since Dawn had arrived in town.

She'd known he'd just been giving her space for the sake of giving her some uninterrupted time with her sister, and while she'd so completely appreciated that, it hadn't really stopped her from missing him.

Which was totally pathetic.

Not that she cared.

Smiling into the receiver, trying hard to look like he'd just made some super funny joke and not like the mere sound of his voice was enough to make her melt, she asked as seriously as she could manage, "Did you need something?"

"As a matter of fact. I'm going to have to step out of the office for the afternoon," he explained, an almost surprising lack of innuendo in his voice even as he kept it all low and velvety. "I was hopin' I could swing by your desk and grab those promotional updates from you now. Maybe say hello to your guest?"

Buffy glanced toward her sister and nodded. "We'll be here."

Ten minutes later, Xander and Cordelia had left to secure a table for the four of them at their current favorite café down the street for lunch, and Buffy was going over the e-mails and various reports she'd printed off to give to Spike with Dawn, showing her the different things she was in charge of handling day to day.

"Trainin' our next round of presumptive interns?" Spike teased, coming to a stop as he reached the left side of Buffy's desk.

Both she and Dawn turned toward him at the same time.

Buffy smiled.

Dawn audibly gasped.

Buffy smiled even wider. She hadn't done much in the way of any preparing her sister to meet her boss, so she pretty much knew exactly what it was the younger girl was gasping about. No doubt she'd been expecting someone more like Buffy herself had been expecting her first day.

"Good morning, Mr. Pratt," Buffy said, catching his obviously amused eye as she shifted back in her chair. Crossed her legs.

"Good morning," he said back, his lips curving up into a warm smile before his gaze shifted away from hers and over to her little sister's. "And you must be the infamous youngest Summers."

"Um, yeah. Yes. That's me," Dawn agreed, seeming to remember herself, reaching over Buffy's lap to slip her hand into Spike's. Shaking it maybe just a little longer than necessary. She was smiling brightly. "It's really nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you as well, Miss Summers." He released her hand and folded his arms over his chest, tilted his head to the side as he scanned the younger girl's face. Then he asked, "Have you enjoyed your day at Pratt so far?"

"Oh, yeah," she said quickly, nodding her head, the awkward smile still in place. "It's been great. Everyone I've met has been really nice. Cordelia has great shoes. And she took me on a tour, which was cool." There was a pause, a long beat. Then she gestured and added, "The actual work stuff here isn't nearly as boring as I expected it to be."

Spike's eyes widened and he smirked appreciatively, shifting his attention back toward Buffy. "Doesn't pull any punches, does she?"

"Not really our style," she agreed, shrugging.

"So I've noticed," he chuckled, reaching up to stuff his left hand into the pocket of his black slacks as casually as possible. Looking like he'd barely noticed that fact that the youngest Summers had been staring at the ring on his finger for a good twenty seconds.

"Buffy said you were planning on taking us to dinner tonight," Dawn said, sounding a lot more eager about the proposition now than she had on the phone the morning before.

Curious, Buffy shot her sister a sidelong glance, noting the color high in her cheeks. She frowned a bit.

And Spike just smiled winningly down at the younger girl once more, all charm and dimples as he nodded once and said, "I am planning to, yes." He ducked his head and raised his eyebrows. "If that's alright with you."

"Totally," she replied breezily, smiling back, a little half laugh escaping her lips. Then she tilted her head to the side and added, "It'll give me a chance to pick that genius brain I've heard way too much about."

Buffy felt her eyes go wide, her cheeks flood with heat and color as she realized what was going on.

She was flirting with him.

Dawn, her little sister, was flirting. With her boss. With her _boyfriend_.

He didn't seem to notice much, or care, too interested in what dawn was saying to wonder why she might have been saying it. He raised both brows even higher and turned his eyes back on Buffy, who was busy sending a very pointed look her sister's direction. Reluctantly meeting the bleached blonde's subtly smoldering gaze, she sighed and said emphatically, " _Once_." She held up a single finger for emphasis. "I called you a genius _one_ time."

"To everyone you know?" Spike countered, no doubt remembering the very similar comment from Faith the first time they'd met, his tone verging on a little too flirtatious. Either unable or just unwilling to keep the smug expression off his face.

Buffy pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him.

His cell phone rang.

Still preening from the attention the girls were giving him, he pulled it out of his pocket and took a moment to glance down at the screen. Frowned. Muttered, "Oh, bollocks." He looked up with an apologetic glance toward Dawn. "Just one minute, yeah?" She nodded, her eyes glued to him as he pressed the phone to his ear and answered with a brusque sounding, "William Pratt. Yes. Yes, I can be there." A pause as he listened. Then, "Fifteen? Alright." Another pause. Then a short, "Thank you." He hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry about that."

"You're running late," Buffy murmured, reading the tension in his shoulders and frowning slightly.

"I am a bit, yeah," he conceded, matching her expression with his own.

"You should go, Spike," she said, extending her hand out for him to take the papers she'd printed off before. "Here, these are the reports you asked for."

"Brilliant, thank you," he said, taking them from her, looking once more toward Dawn as he did. Buffy noticed she was looking at him differently now, less ogling and more like she was suddenly sure she'd seen him once before. Though if Spike noticed, he didn't show it. Just smiled and said, "So, I'll be by to pick you girls up at 7:00. Be thinking about where you'd like to go. Anywhere in the city, my treat"

"Cool," Dawn said, no hint of the flirtatious note that had been present in her voice a moment ago.

Spike chuckled. "Glad you think so." His eyes landed on Buffy's one last time. "I'll see you both tonight."

And then he was gone, shuffling the papers in his hand as he took long, purposeful strides across the nearly empty open office and practically leapt onto the elevator.

It was only after the elevator doors had closed that Dawn turned to her older sister, crossed her arms tight across her chest and demanded simply, " _Spike_?"

 ** _-Friday, August 16th. 6:15pm-_**

She'd forgotten.

It was honest to God just that simple. She'd completely forgotten in that one split second of calling Spike _Spike_ that she'd actually told Dawn about Spike. Specifically, _Spike_. Called him by name and everything. She'd forgotten in that split second that she still hadn't decided whether or not she wanted to tell Dawn who Spike actually was yet. She'd forgotten that Dawn had always been obnoxiously, bordering on dangerously, perceptive.

And boy, was she paying for it now.

"I don't get it, Buffy," Dawn said for what had to have been the fifth time since they'd gotten home from the office, standing in the center of Buffy's bedroom, arms folded tightly across her chest. She was somehow already completely ready for dinner, which Buffy couldn't fathom, seeing as she herself still hadn't even finished her hair. "Why didn't you just _tell_ me? All the times over the last month and a half that you mentioned Spike to me, why didn't you just tell me that's who he was?"

Peeking out from around the edge of her open bathroom door, Buffy deadpanned, "You can't guess?"

"Because he's your boss," Dawn affirmed, making it sound like it wasn't as big of a deal as it actually was. Probably because they'd done this particular version of the argument several times already.

"Well, yeah," Buffy muttered, frowning. She eyed her reflection in the mirror, wincing as she slid another bobby pin into her hair. Worked to pin a loose curl back away from her face.

From the other room, Dawn sighed. "And he's married."

Buffy froze.

She'd been waiting for that one. Had wondered when her sister would finally bridge the gap and mention it. Of course, Buffy'd been content not to ever mention it. To keep rehashing the increasingly moot issue of him being her boss, which was an issue that wouldn't probably be an issue anyway if it weren't for the other obvious, elephant sized issue of his being married.

It grew achingly silent between the two sisters for a moment, Buffy staring at herself in the mirror, both hands still buried in her hair. Dawn quiet and unmoving from her spot in the other room. Neither girl made a move to say anything for a long, extended second.

Then Dawn cleared her throat and murmured, "Right?" She took a few quiet steps toward the bathroom but didn't enter. "I mean...I saw the ring."

Buffy closed her eyes, slid her hands out of her hair and braced them on either side of the sink in front of her. This was the part she'd been dreading. This was the reason she'd never told Dawn who Spike really was. Probably the reason she'd forced the whole thing out of her head to begin with.

"He's married," she conceded quietly, nodding even though she knew her sister couldn't see her. She bit down on the edge of her bottom lip then, thinking about it herself for a minute before deciding to add, "But not, ya know, like... _married_ married."

 _Because that didn't confuse or oversimplify the issue at all._

"Oh," Dawn murmured, and Buffy could picture her brow furrowing and her nose wrinkling up as she thought that over. "So, wait, like common law?"

"No," she sighed and opened her eyes again, reluctantly meeting her own gaze in the mirror. "Like...law, law. But they don't live together or anything." _Because that makes it so much better._ "They haven't for a long time."

Her sister seemed to consider that for a moment. Then she asked, "So they're separated?"

"Yes," Buffy said immediately, then frowned because that wasn't exactly true. Amended, "Kind of." She frowned deeper. "Well, no...I told you it was complicated."

But when Dawn spoke again, she had a way of making it sound pretty simple. "You're having an affair with a married man."

That made her feel a little sick. Not just because it felt like such a massive over simplification of what she and Spike were actually doing, even though that was definitely part of it. But it was mostly the disappointment in her sister's voice that had her stomach clenching and rolling over.

And she finally understood why Spike had hated her using that word so much.

"No," she said, her voice fierce and low. "No, that's not what this is."

It was quiet again for a moment.

Then, her voice no less disappointed than it had been a moment ago, Dawn corrected, "You're _dating_ a married man."

That was…well, no, that wasn't really a whole lot better.

"No," Buffy said again, more slowly this time. She slid another bobby pin into her hair, more for something to do, a distraction, than anything else. Sighed. "I mean, yes, but...we're not _dating_. It's more than that. It's not…" she trailed off, finally giving up on trying to excuse her behavior and sighing again. Moving to the open bathroom doorway, she leaned her bare shoulder against it as she met her sister's eyes and said seriously, "It isn't like with Dad."

Dawn didn't look convinced. "Then what's it like?"

That was such a great question.

"I wish I knew how to explain it," Buffy said desperately, really wishing she _did_ know how to explain it. Wishing she was able to put words to her own mess of emotions, that she could find an eloquent way of describing her feelings. Some simple, defining phrase that would somehow explain the intricacies and shades of grey and all the things that seemed so entirely unfair about the situation she'd put herself in.

"Try," her sister pressed.

Well, she could do that at least. She could try.

"A lot of it isn't even my place to explain, Dawnie," she began, taking a few steps into her bedroom as she did. "Spike's marriage, things with his wife, those aren't my beans to spill." Buffy moved to the edge of her bed and sat down, folding her hands into her lap as she searched for the words. Finally she shook her head and said, "All I can tell you is it isn't what it looks like...or sounds like, or whatever. And the thing between us is a world of complicated. It's insane and totally mixed up and amazing, and probably really, really wrong...I don't even know anymore…" she let those words hang there, heavy in the air between them as she glanced back down at her hands. Smoothed the dark grey fabric of her dress out over her thighs. Sighed. Glanced back up at her sister and said softly, desperately, "But I love him."

It was the first time she'd said it out loud.

And somehow, of all the things Buffy had told her sister that night, this seemed to surprise her the most.

Eyes widening slightly, Dawn said flatly, "You do."

It wasn't a question, and not quite a statement either. Just a curiosity. Something that seemed to change the game, flip some sort of invisible switch in both girls at the same time because it all suddenly seemed so simple. Of course it wasn't. If anything, loving Spike only made things more difficult, more complicated. But on another, totally wig worthy level it felt like it made her own motivations for wanting to be with him more pure.

And Buffy laughed. Nodded and laughed and tried to ignore the way her eyes started to sting as she said, "It's so weird, I haven't actually said it before. Or actually told him." She paused, nodded again. "But I do."

Dawn stood very still, stayed very quiet, for another long moment. When she finally spoke again her voice was gentler than it had been all night. "Does he love you?"

It was a question Buffy'd asked herself more than just a couple times since he'd admitted that he was falling for her.

"I think so, yeah," she said, looking up and smiling almost sadly. Her eyes burning just a little.

Being in love was so weird.

She watched as Dawn nodded thoughtfully, crossing the space between them and dropping down onto the edge of the mattress beside her sister. Leaning back on her hands and kicking her feet back and forth, she turned her head so she could see Buffy's face. Asked softly, "Is he gonna get divorced?"

"He wants to," Buffy responded immediately, realizing even as she did that that probably sounded ridiculous to someone who didn't know the whole story. She sniffled once and added, "I mean, he's trying. That's...sort of where the ultra-complicated comes in."

Dawn nodded slowly, sucking in her cheeks and looking down at her own dress. "And also the part you can't tell me."

"Bingo," she said, putting her own hands behind her on the bed so she could lean back too.

It was quiet between the two girls for a little while again, though this time it didn't feel quite so strained. After a few minutes Buffy sat up again, bracing her hands on the edge of her mattress as she glanced back over shoulder. Meeting Dawn's eyes, her voice coming out very small, she asked, "Do you totally hate me?"

The younger girl rolled her eyes instantly.

"Don't be an idiot," she half laughed, shaking her head as she sat back up again. Leaned her shoulder into her sister's. "Of course I don't hate you. I mean, I hated Dad for what he did, yeah. But I'm not eleven years old anymore, I know things like this aren't exactly black and white." She paused then to bite down on her lip. Shifted blue eyes toward green and added softly, "But I do think you're wading through some pretty dark grey."

"You're probably right," Buffy agreed.

Because even she could see that she was.

"And I worry about you," Dawn added in a rush, clearly not in a hurry to make her sister feel any guiltier than she already did. "You and guys and the whole romance thing don't have the sparkliest of track records. After everything with Angel...I'm not super excited about seeing you get hurt again."

"There's no guarantee that I will get hurt again," Buffy said quickly, but the argument sounded a little flat, a little weak, even to her own ears.

"There's definitely no guarantee you won't," Dawn countered just as quickly, leaning around so she could meet her sister's eyes more easily. "Buffy, this kind of stuff... _somebody_ always gets hurt."

"I know," Buffy said, dropping her gaze down to her lap again. Letting her fingers twist and tangle together, rubbing at the nail polish on her right thumb. "I know that."

"I know you do," Dawn agreed, nodding once. "But I wouldn't be doing my job as your sister if I didn't remind you."

"Stop being so mature," the older girl mumbled, pushing her own shoulder back into her little sister's for emphasis. "It's freaking me out."

Dawn sighed, leaning her head onto Buffy's shoulder. "You and me both." A beat, and she sat back up again, frowning. "And color me confused anyway, I thought you said you hated William Pratt."

"I never said I hated him, Dawnie," Buffy corrected, sliding down off the edge of the bed and standing up again. Glancing at the clock on her bedside table and moving to her closet to pick out a pair of heels. "Just that he was an ass. Which he totally can be. But he's also brilliant and hilarious and so kind, which seems like it'd be all oxymoronic but really isn't." She picked out a pair of black wedge sandals that would put her at least equal height with Dawn and pulled them from the closet, slipped her right foot in and buckled the strap. Glanced up through her lashes to add, "And there's the part where he's so sexy it's disturbing."

Dawn giggled and nodded in agreement, but her expression was thoughtful as she continued to watch her older sister get ready. Brow furrowing, a second later she asked, "And you love him?"

"Against every single ounce of better judgement I have," Buffy confirmed, finishing the buckling of her left wedge's strap and standing up straight again. "What do you think?"

Dawn eyed her sister carefully for a minute before sliding off the bed and standing up straight herself. Then she said softly, "I think you look really pretty."

 ** _-Friday, August 16th. 7:35pm-_**

"Here we are," the pretty little hostess said, gesturing to an impeccably styled table tucked into an alcove near the back of the restaurant Dawn had chosen. It was in a section that was enclosed on two sides by what looked to be decorative floor to ceiling water falls, still very much a part of the restaurant but as private a space as Buffy could picture for a public and extremely popular spot. For a moment she wondered how he'd managed to secure it on such short notice. That was until the hostess turned back toward Spike and smiled broadly, saying, "Table for three, just where you requested, Mr. Pratt."

Maybe he'd celebrated an "anniversary" here, too.

"This is perfect, thank you," Spike said, giving the hostess an appreciative little head nod before moving to pull Dawn's chair out for her. Smiling, he told her, "Excellent choice, by the way."

"I figured," she said back, sliding into the chair and glancing over her shoulder at him. "What with the four stars and all."

Spike arched a brow as he moved around the table and pulled out Buffy's chair as well. "Did your research, I see." He let the tips of his fingers trail oh so subtly over the bared skin between her shoulder blades as he pushed it back in, keeping eye contact with Dawn the whole time.

The secretive touch of his fingertips over her skin made it tingle, reminded her of something he'd whispered in her ear the other night. Straddling his lap, wrapped in his arms, both of them tangled in her sheets. He'd trailed his hands up along her back, dipped his fingertips in the valley between her shoulder blades. Let his lips rest at her ear.

Whispered, _"You have the most exquisite skin."_

A second later he was gone, sliding into his own chair in between the two Summers women and chuckling along with Dawn as she picked up her menu and told him wryly, "Hey, if it was gonna be on your dime, I was gonna make it good."

"And that sauciness does apparently run in the family," Spike mused, picking up his own menu and opening it up, shifting his eyes toward Buffy over the top of it.

"Oh, yeah," she agreed, wondering when the best time would be to tell him that he didn't need to be quite as careful with Dawn as he was being. Didn't need to spend the entire night feigning an over-developed interest in Buffy's position at his company, or discussing how helpful she's been, or her work ethic, or—

"Well thank you for letting me take you ladies out tonight," Spike began, keeping his eyes focused on the younger girl. He cleared his throat, gestured off handedly toward Buffy and added, "Your sister's been such an asset to Pratt over the last couple months, and she's been working so hard lately. It's nice for me to have the opportunity to—"

 _Now._

 _Now would be a good time._

"Uh, Spike," she said softly, cutting him off and offering him a sweet, small smile. "You don't...have to do that."

He looked over at her a little like she'd maybe sprouted a second head. Eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah, you can save the 'I'm just the sensitive and invested boss' act," Dawn added, offering him a more broad, more mischievous looking smile as she leaned back in her chair. "Buffy told me everything."

He closed his menu and set it back down.

"Not _everything_ ," Buffy corrected her sister quickly, purposefully, finding and holding Spike's eyes so that he would know exactly what she meant by that. "I mean, it was strictly need to know."

He perked a brow, saying slowly, "But the stuff about _us_."

"Yeah," Buffy affirmed.

She wasn't sure exactly what reaction he was going to have to that. He'd told her it was up to her, whether or not she told Dawn about them. Whether or not he was taking them out to dinner as her boss or her boyfriend. Still, she wasn't sure. Couldn't quite tell by the look on his face, whether he was relieved, or mad, or a little bit of both. A second passed in silence. Then another.

Then she watched him physically unwind, the tension he'd been carrying in his shoulders fall away and his brow smooth again as he understood what it was she was saying to him. Then he smiled at her. "Well I guess we can all relax then."

From the other end of the table came a sudden, little noise, something between a laugh and a sigh. Frowning, Spike turned his eyes away from Buffy and over to the girl on his left.

"I wouldn't get too comfortable _just_ yet," Dawn said, setting both her elbows on the table and dropping her chin onto her bridged fingers. "I have a few questions for you."

 ** _-Friday, August 16th. 8:42pm-_**

Over an hour later and Dawn still wasn't finished with her "few" questions. In fact, she seemed dead set on asking Spike any and nearly every question that popped into her head. With the blessed exception of avoiding the topic of his marriage, and having the wherewithal not to ask him exactly why he was "dragging his feet" on getting a divorce—a phrase she'd peppered Buffy with earlier in the evening—she hadn't really been afraid to go anywhere else.

Over drinks, which had included wine for Buffy, whiskey for Spike and a diet coke for Dawn, she asked about the dynamics of his family life and about his parents. Over their salads, his education. Where he'd grown up. And finally, over the main course, why it was he'd come to America. Short of asking him what his "intentions" were with her older sister, Dawn touched on nearly every subject you might expect a concerned family member to ask a new boyfriend.

And to Spike's everlasting credit, he answered each and every single question with charm and tact and a level of patience she didn't think she'd ever seen him give to anyone else. Whether that was because Dawn was her little sister and he was trying to make a good impression, or because Dawn was her little sister and he wanted to show Buffy he could indeed handle the temperament and self-righteousness of the average teenage girl, she wasn't sure. She didn't care. All she could think as she sat back and watched the two of them engage in conversation, only piping in when absolutely necessary, was that his sensitive and intentional discussion with her little sister only served to ratchet up her already verging on hazardous desire for him.

Which, on the list of things she needed, was pretty insanely far down.

So when Dawn finally got to the crux of her more than twenty questions, sinking her spoon down into her Crème Brule and asking Spike what it was about Buffy he liked the most, she set her own spoon aside and said, "Okay, I think that's enough interrogation for tonight."

"What?" Her sister frowned, swallowed her bite and dug her spoon back into the dish. "No way, I still have more questions."

Of that, Buffy had no doubt.

Which was sort of why she'd stopped her in the first place.

Hyper aware of the amused azure eyes that were fixed to her face now, she reached as casually as she could for the glass of wine she'd been nursing all night. Raised her eyebrows pointedly as she raised it to her mouth. "You have the whole rest of the weekend to play good cop/bad cop, Dawn."

But the brunette just sighed at that, shaking her head as she picked up her spoon again. Setting her elbow on the table and dropping her chin into her hand, she mumbled, "I'm not the one that's into handcuffs."

Spike choked on the sip of whiskey he'd just taken.

"Oh my _God_ ," Buffy breathed, setting her own glass back down on the table. Eyes wide, torn somewhere between laughing and choking a little bit herself.

Dawn, unruffled, just shrugged. "You shouldn't have told me if you didn't want me bringing it up."

And okay, while that statement may have been fair, it didn't make it any less annoying.

"Remind me to never tell you anything," Buffy said, narrowing her eyes to slits. "Ever, _ever_ again."

"Right then," Spike chuckled sheepishly, his angled cheeks turning a shade of red Buffy'd never seen before as he set his drink back down. "I think that's more'n enough about me for one night, thank you."

Dawn looked pleased with herself as she gave him a highly exaggerated eye roll and propped her other elbow up on the table as well, acting every single micro inch the little sister.

"Sheesh, I was just kidding. Well...kinda." She took another bite of her dessert, twisting the spoon around in her mouth and pulling it out to gesture at him with it as she said, "You Englishmen are all so stuffy."

Spike toyed with his drink, spinning it around in a circle on the table top. Not sheepish anymore but skeptical, a wry smirk quirked the corner of his lips as he narrowed his eyes. "And you have so much experience dealin' with the likes of us?"

"Oh yeah, tons," Dawn said quickly, completely matter of fact. Then she paused, frowned, met Buffy's eyes across the table and added, "Well actually maybe not. After twenty years Giles is probably pretty Americanized by now."

The name had Spike's attention perked instantly, and Buffy knew as she watched the wry smile fall from his lips and his brow furrow that he recognized it from the other morning. His eyes shifted once quickly toward Buffy as if trying to gauge her reaction before settling back on Dawn again.

"Giles?" he asked, his attention riveted on the younger Summers sister.

The one he probably figured he could get the most answers from.

"Yeah, Giles," Dawn breezed, clearly oblivious to the tension radiating from her older sister as she finished the last bite of her Crème Brule and set her spoon back down. "Or Rupert, I guess, if we're going by…" her eyes finally found Buffy's, quickly and expertly read the expression on her face, and widened as she added slowly, "...the fact that Buffy's _clearly_ never mentioned him before now."

 _Something Buffy_ clearly _should have mentioned to her sister before coming out tonight._

Buffy shifted her eyes away from Dawn and up toward the man seated beside her, not sure if she felt relieved or nervous that he wasn't looking at her as he said very simply, "Can't say as she has, no."

"Oops," her little sister murmured, wincing. "Sorry."

And for some reason it was that, Dawn's half whispered apology that changed her mind about the personal details she'd been keeping from Spike. Made her realize how silly it was, on some level, to keep details like the fact that she had a step-father from him just because that could lead to him learning some less than pleasant things about her. To an even further extent, how totally ridiculous it was to be keeping the details about her mother from him. God, for so many reasons it was so _completely_ ridiculous. He hadn't thought twice about sharing details about his own mother with her, and that had been way before he'd needed to. And even more than that, she realized, was that she trusted him. She had been trusting him, was currently trusting him, not to hurt her. Was trusting the choices he was making in their relationship. Trusting the process he thought he needed to go through to make those choices.

And she loved him.

How fair was that then, to keep the most intimate details of her life away from him but think she loved him at the same time?

The correct answer? It wasn't.

So she found herself shaking her head and telling Dawn it was okay. And she met and held Spike's gaze when he turned his head toward her, tilting it to the side to let his eyes search hers for a quiet moment.

"It is?" he finally asked, his expression both skeptical and something that might have been hopeful as she watched his dark brows draw together.

And it was at that moment that she made the decision to tell him everything. How much of that decision was because of the way he'd been behaving with Dawn all night, or how much of it was because she'd realized that if she really did love him she couldn't afford to be keeping secrets about her personal life from him, she didn't know. Again, didn't think it probably mattered.

Not much of anything mattered when he looked at her like that.

Buffy bit down on her bottom lip and glanced down at the table, pulled her napkin out of her lap and folded it up, setting it down on the table. Drummed her nails against it once. Twice. Then looked back up to meet Spike's waiting gaze.

"Giles is our step-dad," she explained, noting the way his eyes softened a little as he realized she was making the active decision to let him in. To give him something she'd denied him just a day or so before. "He was my sophomore year English teacher. Mom met him at a Parent/Teacher conference of all places," she laughed, leaning back a little in her chair as she remembered the way they used to tell the story. "I guess discussing my general lack of ability to stay awake in his class was their idea of a romantic first date or something, because they got married like six months later."

"The whole thing was totally adorable," Dawn added happily, drawing Spike's attention back toward her. "And Giles actually is awesome." She paused to gesture absently, wrinkling her nose up to add, "I mean, for a high school English teacher. And he's not creepy or step-dadish at all. I think you'd actually really like him."

That particular comment was aimed directly at Buffy.

She ignored it, choosing instead to focus her eyes on Spike as he smiled warmly at the younger girl and nodded his agreement.

"Well I don't see how I couldn't," he murmured, picking up his whiskey again. "Seems as though he did a bang up job with the two of you." His gaze lingered purposefully on Buffy's for a moment, a soft smile curving his lips as he took a drink.

"He's the one who got me into Fitzgerald," she told him flatly.

Spike slammed the drink back down. "Bloody hell, the man's a monster."

Dawn laughed, delighted by the obviously flirtatious back and forth between the two blondes at the table. Pleased with himself, Spike chuckled along with her and sat back in his chair. Buffy rolled her eyes.

Pressing her palm flat into the table, she leaned closer toward his ear to whisper, "You're not fooling anyone, you know."

He smirked and mirrored her position, pressing his own palm into the table top beside hers as he leaned closer to whisper in kind, "I want to kiss you so much it's killing me."

She couldn't quite stop the little catch of air in her throat as their eyes met and held, their faces maybe three inches away from one another's. And for just a second, a very long, slow second, they both seemed to forget they were out in public. His fingertips brushed against hers. She shifted almost unconsciously closer to him.

His gaze slid to her mouth.

"Hey. Guys," Dawn said quickly, suddenly, snapping her fingers for good measure. Buffy and Spike jumped a bit and separated, each glancing back in her direction in time to see her smile and wave. "Yeah, hi. See, _I_ may know what's going on between you two, but I'm pretty sure nobody else does." Her eyes shifted sideways, toward the more crowded section of the restaurant. "And I'm pretty sure you want to keep it that way." She looked to them again to add, "Just sayin'."

Sufficiently and equally chastened, maybe just the smallest bit embarrassed at being caught out by an eighteen year old girl, both Spike and Buffy slid back into their own seats.

But not before he caught her eye one last time and winked.

 ** _-Friday, August 16th. 10:48pm-_**

Dawn only made it through half an episode of her favorite 50s sitcom before Thursday's jetlag, the large meal and the half a glass of wine Buffy'd let her have finally got to her. Peeling herself lazily off the couch, she gave her older sister a hug, bid Spike a majorly yawn-ridden goodnight and then disappeared into Buffy's bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Spike waited maybe a full minute before he turned toward her and said, "Alright, be honest. Exactly how much does your sister hate me?"

Buffy, who'd been in the middle of reaching for the remote control when he'd asked, flipped off the TV and rolled her eyes. "She doesn't hate you, Spike."

"Right, I'm sure she's tickled bloody pink that you've been seduced by your older, married boss," he drawled, quirking a disbelieving brow and eyeing her as she crossed the living room to meet him where he stood near the entrance to the kitchen.

"I didn't say she was," she reminded him. "Just that she doesn't hate you, specifically." She came to a stop in front of him, leaning her elbow into the countertop and eyeing him through her lashes. "Actually, I think she really likes _you_."

"As evidenced by the inquisition over dinner," he murmured, reaching up and feathering a hand back through his hair.

"I told you she worries," Buffy reminded him. Then she sighed, pushed off the counter, took a couple steps to close the small space between them and added quietly, "And let's face it, from the outside looking in our situation kind of has 'be worried' written all over it."

Azure eyes scanning her face, his expression softening, he said, "S'pose that much is true." A beat. Then, "Was she upset with you at all?"

Buffy gave herself a minute to think that question over before responding. Dawn had been a lot of things when she'd found out. Confused, worried, disappointed. But upset?

She shrugged, folding her arms over her chest and glancing toward the closed bedroom door Dawn had disappeared behind a few minutes ago. Then she told him truthfully, "It's hard for her, I think, mostly for the same reasons it was hard for me. And she doesn't have the added benefit of knowing all the wiggy details I do." She turned her eyes to his again and smiled softly at what she saw there. Dropped her voice down low to say, "Thanks for being so patient with her tonight. I know you weren't expecting that."

She turned to move across the room back to the couch, turning, sinking down into the cushions with a small sigh. Spike followed. Sat beside her.

Leaning back into the cushions himself he shrugged, teased, "It wasn't all bad, pet. Think I learned a thing or two myself in the process."

"I think so, too," she agreed.

It got a little quiet then as the pair looked at each other through the darkness of the living room, blue eyes locked with green. Reading the soft, sweet expressions they each had on their faces. All the things still unsaid, things that had been bubbling up in Buffy's chest practically all night. At least for the last hour or so.

Since she'd made her decision.

"So," Spike mused after a moment, cutting through the silence and reaching out, placing his hand comfortingly on top of Buffy's leg. Not seductively, not possessively, but casually. For no other purpose other than to be touching her, connected with her. It was nice. Strong and warm against the bare skin above her knee, and she reached to cover it with her own hand immediately, on instinct. He smiled and continued, "Mum up and marries your high school literature teacher. Can't imagine that was a real giggle for you."

She glanced toward his face again but his eyes were down, focused on his hand on her leg instead of her face. He was testing things, she knew. Carefully putting a hand out and pushing on the walls she'd set up around herself to see if they'd give at all. To see if she'd meant what she'd indicated to him over dinner.

She had.

"It was okay, actually," Buffy told him honestly, absently stroking her thumb over the back of his hand as she thought it over. Cast him another sidelong glance. "It was pretty wig worthy when they first started going out, and teenagers are teenagers, so they were awful." She paused to shrug. "But I was never really what you'd call 'popular' anyway so it wasn't really a thing."

That brought his gaze up to her face again.

"Now _that_ I don't believe for one bloody second," Spike chuckled, narrowing his eyes on her and tipping his head to the side.

Buffy smiled back, nodding her head. "It's true. I was the new kid, kind of a troublemaker, and I never quite fit in. So when they got together it didn't really change anything for me. Besides," she added, leaning further into the cushions and letting her head rest against the back of the couch. "Giles made Mom like insanely happy and I guess that always seemed more important than a few points and whispers in the hallway, you know?"

Spike nodded thoughtfully, his hand exerting a steady, comforting kind of pressure on her leg. Then, smirking a little, he asked, "You said he's the one that inspired your love of old Francis?"

"Gave me my very first copy of _Gatsby_ ," Buffy told him proudly, smirking back. She looked out across the room, focusing on the dark television screen. "Yeah, Giles is maybe the only other person I know who loves him as much as I do. He's sort of the reason I decided to study literature in college, who made me want to be involved in the publishing industry."

That brought a real, wide smile to Spike's lips. He shifted back a little ways on the couch so he could better see her face, saying happily, "Wager he's right proud of your upcomin' project then, isn't he?" But the wide smile slipped and fell a little as she turned toward him and his eyes scanned the expression on her face.

"I don't know," she said honestly. Swallowed against the lump that had cropped up in the back of her throat sometime in the last fifteen or so seconds. Prepared for what she knew had to be coming next. "I mean, I haven't really talked to him much since I moved out here." She glanced away from him and modified, "Or at all, I guess."

She knew he was confused. That he had to be. That she'd just spent the last five minutes explaining how wonderful she thought her step-father was, how happy he'd made her mother, how he'd inspired her chosen career path. And now she was saying she hadn't spoken to him in months.

So when he asked his next question, the next most logical question, it wasn't like she was surprised.

"Did somethin' happen?"

A beat passed.

Buffy took a deep breath in.

Then, very softly, she told him. "My mom died."

It seemed to take Spike a minute to really register what she'd said. Maybe the way she'd said it. It seemed to take him another moment after that to decide how he should respond, what he should say. If he should say anything at all. After another extended second of silence, he looked away from her. Dropped his gaze down to their hands, brushed his thumb back and forth a few times along the edge of her leg. Then he shifted his fingers up and entwined them with hers, pulling their joined hands over into his lap and squeezed tightly. Inhaled deeply through his nose. Then he exhaled again, looked up into her face and quietly breathed out, "Oh, Buffy."

His eyes were so earnest. Crystal clear, and so blue even in the darkness. Maybe a little bit pained. But mostly they were just understanding and warm and Buffy was reminded again that she loved him. That she'd somehow, someway, against all of her better instincts _really_ fallen in love with him. And the first thing she thought about was how relieved she was to have told him.

And the second thing she thought about was that she honestly couldn't remember the reason why she'd wanted to hide it from him to begin with.

So she kept her eyes on his, took another deep, slightly shaky breath and continued. "Last fall, we found out she had a brain tumor. And that was scary and everything, but the doctors were able to go in with surgery and get it all out. And she was fine. We all thought…she was fine. You know, things kind of went back to normal." Buffy forced herself to look away from him when her eyes began to burn, the unpleasant but too familiar stinging sensation she'd been able to avoid for what felt like forever. She sniffled once, dropping her voice lower to say, "But there was some kind of post-surgical complication and she died from a brain aneurysm a couple months later."

It happened fast. Almost faster than she could blink, almost as soon as the last word had left her lips. One minute she was sitting beside Spike on the couch, her hand held tightly in his, and the next she was being pulled up and over into his lap. Two strong arms banding around her waist, cradling her gently against the wall of his chest. Like it was an immediate, instinctual reaction on his part. And she went into his arms without a fight, let her body relax and sink into his as he pressed his lips to her temple. Held her. Whispered three quiet, simple words into her ear. "I'm so sorry."

Buffy sighed and closed her eyes, surprised for the second time that night at the sheer relief she felt in her chest just from telling him something she had a feeling he'd already known. Voice quiet, she said, "It's okay. Well I mean it's _not_ okay," she corrected quickly, a choked half-laugh escaping her lips as she moved to lean her head into the crook of his neck. "But if anyone knows what it's like, you do."

"I do," he agreed, then tightened his hold on her. "I'm still sorry."

Buffy nodded, sinking further into his arms, into the dark and the quiet all around them. She didn't think she'd ever been the type to want or need or enjoy being held the way Spike was holding her now, so she was a little surprised by how good it felt. How safe.

Nuzzling her cheek closer to his neck, she reached out and absently fiddled with the button at the collar of his shirt. Asked him, "Did you know already?"

Spike sighed, the gentle in and out of his chest causing her body to shift slightly.

"I had a feelin', yeah," he admitted, the air of his exhale stirring a loose strand of her hair. "Couldn't know for sure, but there were hints. Little things here and there that clued me in." He shifted her back on his lap, prompting her to lift her head so he could look down into her face again. "The question you asked me before the 4th of July, do you remember?"

She remembered. Of course she remembered. The day he'd told her what had happened to his mom, the day he'd first started opening up to her…whether he'd known it or realized the weight of it then or not. She'd asked him how long it took for it to stop feeling so hard.

Keeping her eyes on his, Buffy nodded.

Spike told her gently, "Think I knew after that."

She leaned forward and kissed him.

And not a small, wimpy peck of a kiss either. A real kiss, full and deep and wet. Her hands braced on his pretty cheeks as she slipped her tongue into his mouth and inhaled, the scent of his cologne of sweet, oaky alcohol. She kissed him without any real sense of restraint, not because it seemed like the exact right time to be getting all gropey or anything, but because it was kind of all she wanted to do in that moment. An instinct. Another one, an immediate and instinctual reaction that was a lot more about gratitude and love than it was about desire.

If he was surprised by the kiss, or if he thought it was the wrong reaction or the wrong time for it, he didn't show it. His shoulders tensed for maybe a split second before he slid his hand up from her hip to the nape of her neck and kissed her back just as fully.

When they finally pulled apart a few long moments later, both of them now breathless, chests heaving against one another's, she smiled. Lifted her head up and found his eyes.

"Thank you," she said simply, not bothering to elaborate. Knowing somewhere deep down in her gut that she didn't need to, letting her hands fall away from his face and rest on his chest instead.

Spike didn't respond right away. Instead, he shifted back into the cushions and pulled her body back against his. Urged her to lay her head on his shoulder again. Said, "Thank you for tellin' me."

They just sat like that for a little while. Buffy wasn't sure how long exactly. Maybe ten minutes in still, comfortable silence. Long enough that their breathing had calmed and synched up entirely, that she'd traced the subtle grey pattern on his black button down with the tip of her finger so many times she'd memorized it.

"I like your sister," he said suddenly, the sentiment catching her off guard for its complete lack of lead in or gravity compared with the previous topic of discussion.

Which was probably the point.

Buffy smiled against his shirt, lifted her head so she could see his eyes and asked, "Yeah?"

His eyebrows rose. "You surprised?"

"Yes and no," she said, carefully extricating herself from his embrace and sliding back to her feet. Smoothing her dress back down over her legs, she eyed him and shrugged, turning to cross to the kitchen. "I wasn't sure how you'd feel after the interrogation tonight."

Spike laughed and stood up too. Followed her as he stretched his arms up over his head and said, "Nothin' she could've asked me that I wouldn't have been willing to answer if it was gonna get her on my side. Besides, what's not to like? Seems to me she's a lot like her big sister." He braced his palms down on the countertop and leaned into them, tilted his head to watch her fill a glass with water. "Brilliant, charming, funny." His lips quirked. "Beautiful."

Buffy fixed him with a deadpan expression and flipped off the tap. Raised the glass to her lips and added, "You forgot stubborn and temperamental."

He curled his tongue up behind his teeth. "So she's _exactly_ like her big sister then."

Buffy set the glass down and made a face at him. "You think you're so cute," she accused, reaching up to adjust a strap of her dress that had fallen down onto her shoulder.

Spike grinned, all twinkling eyes and showing his dimples as he pushed himself off the counter and started to approach her.

"No," he said, drawing the word out as he rounded the edge of the countertop, taking the glass of water from her and raising it to his own lips. Smirking at her around the rim as he took a sip. Swallowed, purposefully swept his tongue over the corner of his lip and continued, "I think I'm terribly handsome and devilishly charming." Then he paused, frowned. Pouted. "You only think I'm cute?"

"I think you're fishing," she told him, plucking the now empty glass from his hand and turning to set it down in the sink.

He bit down on the swell of his lower lip and gave her a faux coy shrug. "Well, if I've gone through all the trouble of baitin' the hook…"

"God," Buffy laughed, shaking her head at him as she turned her body toward his. She searched his eyes for a quick moment. Then she sighed, smiled and told him, "You're exhausting, you know that?"

"What, and you're such a bloody picnic?" Spike drawled, shifting back and tilting his chin down, raising both eyebrows.

She acknowledged him with a thoughtful tilt of her head, folded her arms over her chest. "I don't think anyone's ever accused a Summers of being too _easy_ to deal with."

"Just as well," he said offhandedly, mimicking her with his own thoughtful head tilt. "Don't reckon I'd love you so much if you made it easy."

The air seemed to physically change between them.

Buffy felt her eyes widen. Felt a perfect, bright tingle down her spine. Felt butterfly wings. Hundreds of them picked up and fluttered in her stomach, beat against her lower ribs as a slow, wide smile spread across her lips.

She'd known. Had known. Even before Drusilla had hinted at it in her kitchen the week before, before Spike had told her himself that he was falling for her. Somewhere down deep where all gut feelings live she'd known he would never have risked what he had already, what he was continuing to risk, if he didn't.

So yeah, she'd known.

But hearing it. God, _hearing_ it. That took every last bit of quiet, niggling fear of telling him exactly how she felt away.

It was as that last niggling bit of fear fluttered away that she took a small step closer to him and reached for his hand. Lifted it up, traced her fingers lightly along the underside of his palm before entwining them with his. Met his twinkling eyes and said, "I was just thinking the same thing about you."

The only indication she needed to know that he'd heard what she'd said, _understood_ what she'd said, was the subtle change in his eyes. They softened, the smirk that had been so present just moments ago gentling into a soft, pleased smile. He squeezed her hand and asked, "Love me, do you?"

"Yeah," Buffy murmured without missing a beat. Surprised a little by how simple it seemed, how easy it was when those three words finally left her lips. A simple, easy fact. "I love you."

And it was his turn to kiss her.

It seemed to be his own immediate, instant instinct. Like it was the only thing _to_ do in that moment, wrap her tightly in his arms and kiss her like that. Slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that Buffy felt everywhere, another perfect tingle that shot down her back and landed in her belly, whipped the menagerie of butterflies there into another whirling frenzy. And it just didn't seem to matter right then, all of the things that always seemed to matter so much. The complexity of their relationship and the potentially disastrous consequences that came with it. The dangerous position it put them both in. The moral grey areas and the pain that they would inevitably cause someone, somewhere, at some point.

Because they loved each other.

And in just that singular, beautiful, perfect moment, it actually seemed like enough.


	21. Chapter 21

**_-Saturday, August 17th. 8:39am-_**

Buffy was buzzing.

Humming.

Blushing and smiling and happy. Really happy. Had been since she'd finally peeled herself away from Spike long enough to walk him out of her apartment the night before. Because he loved her, and she knew it, and somehow knowing it made everything around her feel better. Brighter. More solid.

Like they'd maybe finally found their footing.

She knew that wasn't true. Logically speaking, with her logical brain, Buffy knew that just being in love with each other wasn't enough. Couldn't be. That in spite of what every good romance novel had tried to tell her, love didn't conquer all.

It especially didn't trump legalities.

But right now, even if just for the day, Buffy was more than happy to be doing all the thinking with her very illogical, very mushy, he-said-he-loved-me brain.

"You're doing it again," Dawn sing-songed, using her straw to loudly stir the ice in her iced latte.

Buffy glanced up. Elbow propped on the cafe table, chin propped on her hand, she blinked a few times. Frowned. "Doing what?"

The younger girl made a dramatic show of fluttering her eyelashes, leaning forward to mimic her sister's position and sighing, "Staring down into your coffee like it just said something _hilarious_."

 _Oops_.

Embarrassed, but not quite enough to stifle the goofy smile spreading across her lips, Buffy sat up straight and dropped her hand down to the table. Made a semi-apologetic face.

"I know," she said, still smiling. "I know, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Dawn said quickly, laughing to herself as she sat back in her chair. Then she shrugged casually and added, "But if you wanted to, ya know, fill me in on whatever's got you all smiley today I wouldn't exactly hate it."

Reaching forward and wrapping her hands around the ceramic mug in front of her, Buffy looked down into the foam of her cappuccino again. Nibbled lightly on her bottom lip. Wondered if it might ruin the buzzy, glowy feeling she had going if she spoke the words out loud again. Gave the whole thing a name, shared it with someone that wasn't her or Spike.

Then she decided that was stupid. "Spike told me he loved me last night."

Dawn looked surprised.

"Oh," she murmured, eyes wide. She leaned forward again. "Whoa."

Buffy chose not to dig further into just how surprised her sister seemed by the news, deciding to focus instead on telling the story.

"Yeah," she said, lowering her voice a little to keep the conversation private. She shifted back in her chair, pulling her coffee to the edge of the table as she did. "After I told him about Giles, and about what happened…with Mom?" Buffy waited for Dawn to nod before nodding herself, dropping her eyes to continue. "Well, after that we had this amazing…moment. There was no pressure or anything like that. We just sat together for a long time in the quiet."

And it was quiet again now, the two remaining Summers women sitting in an extended moment of comfortable silence as the sounds of the coffee shop went on around them.

Then Dawn asked, "And then he told you?"

"No, then I basically called him a pain in the ass," Buffy laughed, picking up her coffee and raising it to her lips. Smiling against the rim, she gave a little head tilt and added, "He told me after that."

The younger girl laughed too, picking up her own glass and fingering the straw.

"Romantic," she muttered wryly, taking a long sip.

Buffy smiled, set her coffee down again. "Actually it was. In a bizzaro, non-perfect, very befitting of our situation type way." She paused to think it over, tapped her nail against her mug and raised a brow. "He's worried you hate him."

"I do," her sister breezed, not skipping a beat.

Her eyes widened, horrified.

"God, relax." Dawn sat back and looked up at the ceiling. "I'm just kidding. What kind of sister would I be if I hated someone that makes you this annoyingly happy? Besides, I don't know him well enough to hate him anyway." She paused to take another sip off her straw. Swallowed and added, "I don't know him well enough to _like_ him, either."

"Hence the main reason I agreed to the Magical History Tour today," she explained, running her finger along the cocoa powdered rim of her cappuccino, popping it in her mouth and speaking around it. "So you two can get to know each other better."

Dawn finished her coffee with a last, loud suction-like sound and set her glass down. "Why is he so wigged over what I think?"

Brow furrowed, feeling like they'd just taken a sharp right turn into the land of That Should Be Obvious, Buffy considered the normally hyper perceptive teenager in front of her.

"Because you're my sister, and he has a sister, so he knows exactly how much your opinion means." She leaned back again and crossed both her legs and her arms. Inhaled. Added on a sigh, "And he's worried you think he's taking advantage of me."

Dawn snorted and folded her own arms. "Then it's _you_ he needs to get to know better, not me."

While Buffy appreciated the sentiment behind the words, she was still getting the feeling her little sister was missing the point. And the point being, she was _happy_. For the first time in a long time. Thinking it over, she dipped the tip of her pinky back in the cocoa powder. Brought it to her lips again. Smiled against the pad of her finger as she remembered the taste of Spike's kiss the night before.

Remembered the perfect, aching look in his eyes when he'd told her goodnight.

"He knows me pretty well already," she murmured, her skin doing the buzzing thing again.

"Does he though?"

She paused and looked up, the question catching her off guard.

"I mean, really," Dawn continued, gesturing outwardly with her hand, "Think about it for a minute. How long have you two even _known_ each other, three months?"

Buffy shifted in her chair. "Almost three, yeah."

Why did that suddenly sound like not a very long time?

"Okay," the brunette said, nodding. Thoughtful. "And of those almost three months how long have you actually been…together?"

That struck a chord, a pinging in the back of her mind that made her stop short. Purse her lips. Was the question she should have been asking herself? They'd known each other, been working together, for nearly three months. Of those three months, they'd been…well, doing what they were doing for about half that time, at least.

So, a month and a half.

Six weeks.

Buffy frowned, considering. How soon was too soon to know that you loved someone?

Deciding to shelve that particularly wiggly can of worms for another time, she shook her head, frustrated. "This thing with him is _real_ , Dawn."

And Dawn fired back, "I'm not saying it isn't, Buffy."

"Then what _are_ you saying?" Buffy asked, looking away from her sister and around the coffee shop instead. She could feel her cheeks were warm, still frustrated but doing her best to hide it.

Not that she'd ever been much good at hiding anything, and especially terrible at hiding things from her younger sibling.

Across from her, Dawn softened and glanced around, too. Then leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I'm saying I'm your sister and I love you."

"You're saying that you're worried," Buffy corrected, casting a quick side-eye across the table. But she could feel her expression softening, too.

"If you knew what I meant then why'd you ask?" The brunette murmured, raising a brow. Then she dropped her hands down to the metal table, clicked her nails against it a few times and exhaled through her nose. "So you're not worried at all that stuff with Spike is just a little too serious, too soon?"

Buffy shook her head no immediately, squashing the thought entirely. Raised a hand and cut Dawn off before she could say anything else.

"I understand why _you're_ worried but I'm an adult, Dawnie," she said, meaning it. She searched the younger girl's clear blue eyes with her green ones for a moment seriously, making her point, before cracking a small smile. "I think I can make decisions for myself about how soon is too soon, and I think I know better than you do how I actually feel."

"I know that," her sister agreed, and it really sounded like she meant it. The expression on her face was still pinched, though. Furrowed like she still wasn't totally convinced. She shook her head. "It's just…you were with Angel for three _years_ before—"

"And look how well that turned out," Buffy said quickly, cutting that extremely unpleasant stroll down Memory Lane off before it could really get started.

There was nothing about her relationship with Angel that was worth dredging up again. Definitely, absolutely, _definitively_ nothing about her relationship with Angel that was worth comparing to her relationship with Spike. The two men were as different as two men could possibly be, and her relationships with them were even more different than that. It wasn't even apples and oranges, it was apples and…sports cars.

The really pretty, fancy ones dressed in bright colors and Italian leather.

Dawn sighed. "Is cutting me off mid-sentence your way of telling me you're done talking about this?"

"Are you gonna finish that?" Buffy asked, not waiting for a response before reaching across the table to pick off a flaky piece of blueberry scone, popping it into her mouth with a note of finality.

"Fine," the younger girl said, raising her hands up and putting her palms out. "You win. I'll drop it, but let the record show that I'm worried about you." She dropped her hands again. "I don't wanna have to say 'I told you so' here."

Buffy was willing to put money on the fact that, of the two of them, she definitely wanted that less.

So she smiled softly and said, "That makes two of us."

"Well as long as we're on the same page, I guess," Dawn muttered. Then she smacked Buffy's hand away just as she reached for another bite of scone. "Yes, I'm gonna finish this."

"Ow," Buffy complained loudly, rubbing the back of her hand. Making a face. "You can be _such_ a little sister sometimes, you know that?"

"Gonna be a long bloody day if you two are resortin' to violence already."

Just the sound of his voice was enough to bring the blood rushing into her cheeks, a grin to her lips.

Buffy turned to look up and over her shoulder, not surprised to see Spike standing behind her but her skin humming and pleasantly all a-tingle anyway. Dressed in copper-colored denim pants, dark tinted sunglasses hooked casually at the V-neck of his white cotton shirt, he looked as handsome as she'd ever seen him.

Smirking rakishly down at her, resting his hand on the back of her chair, he let the tips of his fingers grazed the back of her neck and she both hated and loved how easily he could fluster her.

Across the table, her sister looked up at Spike with a very wry, very non-flustered expression. "She started it."

Buffy shot the other girl a look.

"Tattle tale," she muttered.

"Scone stealer," Dawn accused.

Spike chuckled and reached for a chair at the nearest table, spinning it around and straddling the back of it. He folded his arms over the top and leaned forward, eyeing the girls respectively. "You want me to go out and come back in again so you ladies can duke it out?"

Dawn shook her head. Picked off another piece of her scone and said, "Nope, I'm good." Popped it in her mouth and chewed defiantly.

"Yeah, I bet," Buffy grumbled good-naturedly. Then she turned her attention on Spike and smiled again. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," he murmured, eyes scanning her face almost hungrily for a moment before he broke eye contact and reached for her cappuccino mug. "You mind?"

She doubted it would have mattered if she'd said yes considering he was already raising the coffee to his lips and taking a sip, so instead she sat back in her chair and said, "Go ahead."

"Thanks, luv." Spike set the mug back down and winked at her. "Didn't have a chance to grab any myself before leavin' the house this morning."

Dawn made a point of meeting her sister's gaze and giving a cursory _you two are so gross_ eye roll.

Buffy rolled her eyes right back, but truthfully, there wasn't much anyone could do or say or…roll that would dampen her current mood. Now that he was there, _whenever_ he was there, all of the potential consequences of being in love with a married man seemed very far away.

An ocean away, to be exact.

It definitely didn't hurt her excitement that she knew her biggest worry was in a different country. Certainly didn't take away from the fact that she was getting to spend an entire day with her sister and the man she loved.

And sure, Henry was going to be there too, which was…something. Definitely something. Whether it would end up being a good something or a bad something, she wasn't sure. She and Spike hadn't talked much about it, hadn't talked much about he and his father at all lately, but he didn't seem overly concerned now. And she wasn't concerned, either.

Except she was. Just a little.

It wasn't that she was worried about how Dawn would behave, or even how she and Spike would behave. And it wasn't that she didn't like Spike's dad. Buffy liked Henry Pratt a lot, and she was pretty sure that Henry Pratt liked her. She was also pretty sure that Henry Pratt knew there was something more than casual friendship going on between herself and his son.

Which was the something she _was_ concerned about today.

But as it almost always did, being with Spike was having a distinctly, almost unnervingly, reassuring effect on her now. His casual smile, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the easy way he was engaging with her kid sister; all of it doing its share to soothe whatever nerves she'd had.

"So what are the people, places and things on the agenda for today?" she asked him, putting the worry about the other Mr. Pratt out of her mind for the time being.

"And are any of them museums," Dawn added, wriggling her fingers in his direction for emphasis. "Because I'm not really into the whole…sit-and-stare thing."

"Oh, don't you fret about that," he told her, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a distinctive, deliberate smile. "Sit-and-stare innit exactly Henry's style."

 ** _-Saturday, August 17th. 10:08am-_**

Buffy took a deep breath in, holding it in her lungs for a minute, letting the breeze and the sun and the salt spray from the harbor mist over her cheeks as they moved at an easy, clipping pace through the water. Then she looked front again, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

Smiling, she watched her little sister and Spike's father standing together at what she'd been told was technically the "bow" of the boat; a small-ish, old fashioned wooden schooner with big, billowing sails and painted green sides. It was a historic replica called the Liberty Star, a mid-sized rental Tall Ship that Henry had chartered out of the harbor for the morning.

It was a beautiful "little" boat, and while the creak and groan of the wooden deck and ancient looking sails had given her a minor panic attack when they'd first set sail from the harbor, Henry had assured her laughingly that the schooner had only been built to _appear_ old.

For nostalgia's sake, or something like that.

Relaxed now, used to the rocking of the waves, she watched Henry and Dawn as they looked out over the harbor. Laughing amiably at something Buffy hadn't quite heard from where she and Spike were sitting, side by side on a blanket spread across their section of the main deck. Henry was pointing out across the water, indicating various buildings, iconic images and gorgeous views of the Boston skyline that only being out this far into the harbor could afford. Telling Dawn stories, historical facts, the odd joke here and there. The older man looked completely at home, entirely relaxed, and like he was having a lot of fun.

"Why do I get the feeling your dad's done this before?" Buffy mused, dropping her hand and looking at Spike.

"Oh, only about a hundred times," he agreed with a comfortable sigh, shifting and leaning back onto his elbows. "Rentin' out this old clipper's his favorite for out of town guests."

Liking the idea that Henry would go so out of his way to show them around the city he loved just a little more than she should, she sat up a little straighter. Tucking her legs up crisscross beneath herself, she smirked down at the halo of white-blonde hair. "How many times have _you_ done it with him?"

"Enough that I reckon I could prattle off his little speech there by heart," Spike told her, looking up into her face with shaded eyes.

"He has a speech?" Buffy asked, wrinkling her nose.

She watched his eyebrows go up over the rims of his sunglasses and his mouth curve to the side.

"You're surprised?" He shook his head and turned his face forward, indicating for her to follow his gaze back to the front of the schooner with a jut of his chin. "Told you he loves all this, knows more about the city and its past than anyone'd ever need to. To tell you the truth I'm a bit jealous," he admitted on a chuckle, looking toward Buffy again. "Never been much for blind patriotism myself."

She pursed her lips, finding the whole thing completely adorable. "But…he has a speech?"

Spike turned to answer her just as the schooner bumped once, dipping and weaving into a larger swell and causing Buffy to shift forward, to reach over and brace herself by grabbing his shoulder. He leaned down quick as lightning and brushed his lips over her hand, smirking at the startled, mildly embarrassed expression on her face. Watched her, delighted, as she blushed and steadied herself, sat up straight again.

Then, sitting up again himself, he answered her question like nothing had even happened.

"A speech of sorts, yeah. Normally these little tours come with a professional guide, but Henry's never taken to that." He pulled his sunglasses off and hooked his arms casually around his knees, leaned sideways to murmur conspiratorially, "Fancies himself an expert."

She shot him a flirty, sidelong look and turned forward again.

Henry was pointing out a little to the right, indicating the weathered looking lighthouse on a rocky outcropping up ahead. She could hear better what he was saying now that the schooner had turned course, the salted breeze carrying his rumbling voice back to them as he explained that what Dawn was looking at was a historic site that pre-dated the American Revolution, and the rickety white tower standing there now was the second oldest working lighthouse in the country.

Buffy arched a brow and glanced back at Spike. "He sounds like an expert to me."

"Yeah," the bleached blonde agreed mockingly, turning his head and eyeing her through his lashes. "You who thought _Dunkin Donuts_ was one of Boston's historical sites."

He nudged her shoulder with his to show he was only teasing, the blue of his eyes sparkling brighter than usual as he gazed at her. It might have been the fresh sea air tricking her brain into thinking that. Or it might have been the twinkling reflection of the sunlight off the water, or the sunlight off his skin. It looked different in the bright outdoor light of mid-day than in the fluorescent light of the office or the midnight of her apartment, and she realized this was the first time she'd been with him out in the open. Not…completely out in the open, of course, but the closest thing to it since this whole mess had started.

And she smiled at him, watching as another breeze whipped up, ruffling his un-gelled curls and sending one falling down over his forehead. She felt her fingers twitch, itching to reach up and brush it back the way she would have if they'd been alone.

But they weren't alone.

"Buffy," Henry called suddenly, illustrating that fact to a very sharp T and making the blonde pair start, shift awkwardly apart.

Embarrassed, she cleared her throat and looked front, reaching up to shield her eyes again. "Yes sir?"

She winced. _God_ , like he was her high school principal or something.

On her left, she felt Spike chuckle.

She resisted the urge to elbow him.

But Henry just grinned in a way that Buffy could only describe as roguish, and though she couldn't see his eyes behind his sunglasses, she imagined they were sparkling. Then he made a show of pointing back in their direction, aiming his finger at his son while keeping his attention on her and saying, "If he's over there telling you I don't know what the hell I'm talking about, do me a favor and tell him to can it, will ya?"

"Yes sir," she said again, a little laugh in her voice this time around as her shoulders relaxed and she nodded.

Henry gave her a nod back, then turned his smiling attention back toward her little sister.

Spike waited another moment or so before swiveling his head around, lowering his voice to a seductive whisper and asking, "So you'll say 'yes sir' to my father but not to me?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, mock-scandalized, face and neck warmed from his words now as much as from the sun.

"Jealous?" Buffy asked, teasing him as platonically as possible to cover for the effect his very non-platonic teasing had had on her.

He smirked like he knew what she was doing. Then unhooked his arms from around his knees and leaned all the way back onto the blanket. Closing his eyes, reaching his hands up to pillow the back of his head, he exhaled, "Insanely."

Buffy bit her lip and smiled.

"Yeah," she murmured wryly, watching him fidget a bit to get comfortable. "I can tell."

Spike just grinned, finally settled on the blanket. Tipped his face up toward the sun like a cat.

Neither of them said anything for a little while, listening instead to the sounds around them. Henry's deep voice and Dawn's high one, the occasional bout of mingled laughter. Squawking gulls and rushing water as they clipped along, subtle dips and splashes when the boat cut through the waves. The rocking and creaking of the wooden deck below them and the billowing, wind-whipped sound of the sails overhead.

Eventually, Buffy closed her eyes as well. Put her hands on the deck behind her and leaned back. Mimicked Spike by tilting her own chin upward, feeling the sun full on her face and in her hair, warming her scalp. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed the feel of the sun on her skin until she felt it again.

Only opening her eyes again when she felt Spike shift beside her, she glanced toward him.

He'd rolled over onto his side to face her, his head propped in one hand while he brushed the fingertips of the other against her knee and somehow made it look like an accident. He was staring at her, smiling at her, but it was more in his eyes than on his lips.

Buffy smiled back. Narrowed her eyes and asked, "What?"

"How is it we've never come out to the harbor before?" Spike asked the question almost more to himself than to her. Brushed the tips of his fingers over her sun-warmed leg once more, then dropped his hand. Murmured, "You were made for this. Never seen a woman look so natural in the sunlight."

And that was what Buffy knew for certain she would miss the most, when and if and _God forbid_ this thing between them imploded and came tumbling down around them. The way he looked at her. Like something out of a dream.

She paused and stared down at him, feeling a weird mix of perfectly content and perfectly worried. Forgetting for just a moment, just one, that they weren't alone, that Spike's father was only a scant fifteen or so feet away from them, she leaned a little closer to him. Wanted to say something but she honestly didn't know what.

"Come here," Spike said suddenly, rolling back over onto his back and patting the spot beside him. "Lay down next to me."

Buffy sat back again just as suddenly. Blinked a lot. Frowned. She shot a glance toward Henry and Dawn who were now leaning against the railing at the bow, engaged in conversation, looking relaxed and casual as ever.

She shot a glance back toward the man on her left and wondered if there was something she'd missed.

"I can't, Spike," she told him, frowning deeper. "Your dad is right there."

Spike surprised her by laughing.

Shaking his head and looking up at her like she was adorable, he said, "Let me worry about my dad, Buffy. Now come here." He rested his hand on top of his stomach and settled in again, closing his eyes. "Don't make me ask again."

It wasn't the first time he'd spoken those words to her. Once in his office, what felt like years ago. More than once in the bedroom. And now, just like then, a subtle tingle of indignation shot down her spike, outweighed only by the not so subtle tingle of something else.

She rolled her eyes but moved to do as he'd asked. Figuring if he didn't seem to be worried about his father then she wasn't going to be, either, she shifted back onto the blanket. Not all the way down onto her back, because she wasn't about to tempt fate quite _that_ much, but down onto her elbows.

"Anyone ever tell you you're incredibly bossy," she complained, crossing her ankles out in front of her.

Spiked smirked, eyes still closed. "Yes."

"To your face?" Buffy countered.

"You think you're so clever," he chuckled, low and deep, the sound coming from his chest. A beat passed. Then he rolled over again and propped himself back up, reached over and brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. Eyes steady on hers, he said seriously, quietly, "I love you."

The declaration had come out of nowhere and everywhere all at once.

"I love you, too," she whispered back, liking the way the words felt on her lips when she said them in that order.

His answering smile was sweet. Soft and wide, almost shy, and the way his angled cheeks dimpled made him look boyish.

Young.

Spike never _really_ looked his age. Actually, he consistently looked about ten years younger than the thirty-seven Buffy knew he was. But he always looked a little bit hard. A little tired or…heavy, like his sister had said. The weight of the whole world balanced precariously on his shoulders.

He looked light now.

A lightness that seemed to dim just a little as he continued to search her eyes, then sighed. Glanced back toward his father again.

"Wishin' right about now that I'd pulled the trigger and told Henry about us before today," he murmured thoughtfully, wistful. Answering the unspoken question Buffy'd had running through her head all morning. "Would'a made this all a bit easier, in the short term anyway." He paused, and his brow furrowed. "What d'you suppose they're chattin' about?"

Buffy hurried to reassure him. "Dawn knows not to say anything, Spike. You don't have to worry about that."

That had him turning his attention on her once more.

"Not worried, sweetheart," Spike promised, voice low and his brow smoothing over again as he scanned her expression. "Just thinkin'."

"About?" Buffy asked, scanning his face in return.

She wondered for a moment if he was going to tell her what he was thinking, but he didn't. Didn't get a chance to.

"Well now, you two have been awfully quiet," Henry said, his voice booming on the breeze and drawing both their eyes forward in an instant. He and Dawn stopped just in front of them, the older man putting a hand on the mast there and leaning into it. Smiled and asked, "Everything alright over here?"

Buffy noticed that he aimed the question at her as he pulled his own sunglasses off and tucked them into his polo shirt, a teasing sort of glint in his eye that reminded her almost painfully of Spike.

She sat back up again and re-crossed her legs, nodding. "Everything is perfect over here."

Henry perked a skeptical brow, his lips curving to match.

"Now that…the sails have stopped making all those wiggy noises," Buffy admitted, smiling sheepishly.

He grinned. "You're having fun then?"

"A whole lot of it," she told him truthfully. Then she gestured more broadly to the outing as a whole. "Thank you, again. This really was way too much."

Spike chuckled and sat up himself. "Trust me, pet, he's more'n happy to do it."

"You know Buffy, he's right. I never get to show off like this," Henry admitted, playing along. Then he looked at Dawn and sighed plaintively. "Just hope I haven't bored your sister to tears."

"Are you kidding?" Dawn asked, grinning. "This is great." She turned her excited smile on Buffy. "Mr. Pratt told me I can steer the boat."

Henry groaned, turning and pressing his forehead into the mast dramatically.

"For the last time, kid, it's not a _boat_. It's a schooner." He pulled his forehead off the mast and shot the younger girl a look. "And I said we'd _ask_ the captain if you can steer for a bit. You ever steer a schooner before?"

Dawn pretended to think it over for a minute, pursing her lips. Then she shrugged and said, "I drive my car a lot."

"You also crash your car a lot," Buffy reminded her, raising her eyebrows high.

The Pratt men shared a very specific look, Spike like he was fighting the urge to burst out laughing and Henry like he was fighting the urge to wince.

"Right," Henry said, making a face at Buffy and Spike even as he reached out and put his hand on Dawn's back, ushering her toward the stern of the schooner. "Let's go ahead and leave that part out when we ask the captain."

 ** _-Saturday, August 17th. 6:37pm-_**

"Was there anywhere else you girls wanted to go?" Henry asked, leading their foursome out of the cobbled back alley they'd been navigating through and out onto the main street, stopping when he came to a section of less-crowded sidewalk. "Anything you still want to see?"

Buffy glanced at Spike and made a face, widening her eyes as if to ask _is there anything even_ left _to see_? They'd been walking all afternoon, taking all kinds of "historical" shortcuts to various historical sites around the downtown area, then the botanical gardens, and to Buffy's personal favorite, the duck pond at Boston Common. They'd seen more than half the places on Buffy's original list, and some she never would have considered. Truthfully, they'd squeezed more sight-seeing into the last four hours than she would have thought possible, which was great.

But also…the walking. So _much_ walking.

Spike stifled a laugh as he looked at back her and shrugged his shoulders, the expression on his face looking like a _what did I tell you_?

She shook her head at him but she was smiling, reaching back to pull her hair up off her neck and fanning it.

"I wouldn't mind seeing the inside of…any place with air conditioning," Dawn said, reaching up and wiping a sheen of sweat away from her forehead. Then she grimaced and glanced down toward her stomach. "Preferably an any place with food."

"I thought I heard growling," Henry teased, leaning back on his heels and crossing his arms. He dimple-grinned at her. "Alright kiddo, you pick. Anything you're in the mood for?"

Dawn shrugged. "I'm really not picky. Just starved."

"Buffy?" he asked, turning bright eyes on her.

"I'm not in the habit of being picky, either," she replied. Then felt a large bead of sweat pool between her shoulder blades and drip down her back, down into the waistband of her shorts. Wrinkling her nose up, she added, "Although given the amount of sweating I've done today I'd probably vote for a restaurant with a few less than four stars."

The older man laughed like he understood, then turned and began walking again. "Easy enough." He waved for them to follow, saying, "There're plenty of great little dives to choose from around here."

"Like that one?" Dawn asked hopefully, pointing to the packed looking pub across the street. The one they were obviously _not_ heading towards. She kept her eyes on it as they walked by, adding, "That one looks good."

Buffy frowned and looked toward her boyfriend. "Why's it so crowded?"

"Glad you asked, Buffy."

"Oh, here we go," Spike groaned, looking up to the sky.

Henry continued, undaunted. "That bar in particular is what we call a tourist trap."

"But…" Dawn trailed off, frowning, pointing back toward the crowd milling in front of the door. "There's air conditioning there."

"And burgers," Buffy murmured.

"And beer," Spike added, sounding like he needed one.

"And _tourists_ ," Henry finished, a note of finality in his voice as he did.

Father and son exchanged good-natured scowls and the foursome continued walking, Spike shaking his head as he said flatly, "The girls here _are_ tourists, Hank."

"Hey." Buffy smacked his arm, making him look at her. "Tourist? I _live_ here."

He laughed and pulled his arm out of her reach, saying, "You've _lived_ here all of three months, Summers."

There it was again. Three months. That indefinable time limit, a short time to live somewhere, but enough time to fall in love. Enough time to change everything. A very short time and an impossibly long time all at once.

"And?" She challenged, raising both her eyebrows high as they walked side by side. "A lot can happen in three months."

It was probably a good thing Henry wasn't currently looking at the two of them, because the energy that sparked and crackled between them then was anything but friendly.

Gaze softening as he looked at her, Spike smiled. "True enough."

Oblivious, or maybe just playing at being oblivious, to the moment passing between the two blondes behind him, Henry sighed. Directed his gaze down toward Dawn and said, "Being a tourist is more a state of mind than a state of being anyway." Then he laughed and turned to glance at them over his shoulder, raising his voice. "You oughtta know that, Will. Lived here for almost thirteen years and _still_ don't know your way over to Fenway."

Spike reached up and clapped his hands down onto his father's shoulders. "That's less a product of my failure to assimilate and more a result of my general distaste for American baseball."

That brought a loud groan to Henry's lips this time.

"If you weren't so painfully good looking I'd swear you weren't my son at all," he muttered, shaking his head as he turned back around.

Spike chuckled and let go of his dad. Perked a scarred brow in Buffy's direction and teased, "Good thing then, eh?"

The words may have been aimed at his father, but the smoldering eyes that accompanied them were all hers. He winked once and she felt the goofy smile starting to spread across her lips and bit down on the bottom one to stop it. Then, struck again by how young he looked, how relaxed he seemed, she felt the smile slip just slightly.

Because his behavior didn't quite match his words. Hadn't really all morning, if she thought about it. For someone who'd been all with the incredibly insistent that he wasn't ready to tell his dad about the nature of his marriage, or about the nature of _their_ relationship, he sure wasn't doing a whole heck of a lot to hide his flirting.

Because he was very obviously flirting with her now.

And then she had a thought. Wondered dimly as she looked at him if maybe he was doing all this on purpose. Not that he was faking it or being overly flirtatious, any more than he would have been normally, but just that he wasn't trying to hide it. That maybe he was _hoping_ Henry would figure it out on his own and that he'd be the one to bring it up.

And if that _was_ what he was hoping, she realized she really didn't have a problem with it.

Whatever got them talking was just fine by her.

"Where are we going?" Dawn asked, smoothing her heavy hair back away from her face and pulling it back into a ponytail, tightening the rubber band once before dropping her hands again.

"There's another pub not too far from here that's a hell of a lot better than that crap back there. It's only about a block away," Henry assured her, picking up the pace of his gait. Teasing her for her earlier impatience, he added, "If you can make it."

Dawn wrinkled her nose up at him and Buffy smiled as she watched them, sharing an amused side-eyed glance with Spike's dad. Enjoying the fact that somehow, somewhere along the way, the older man had stopped making her feel nervous and had started making her feel like she was in with him on some wonderful, long standing inside joke.

"A block." The younger girl frowned, glancing back at Buffy, too. "What is that, like a mile?"

"You've lived in California too long, honey," Henry told Dawn, giving her long ponytail a teasing tug. Chuckling at her exaggerated teenage eye-roll.

Whether by accident or on purpose, the foursome split into twos again. Henry and Dawn walking just a little faster than Buffy and Spike, a little gap forming between them of about six or seven feet. It didn't feel forced, but easy. Natural. Like everything else that day had been.

"Those two certainly seem to be gettin' on well, don't they?" Spike told Buffy after a minute had passed, the unlikely duo ahead of them still chatting absently about a city block and what it means to use it as a form of distance measurement.

Buffy shrugged.

"I'm not surprised," she told him simply, honestly. Almost surprised at how much she meant it. "Your dad's a really easy guy to get along with."

Spike frowned.

"And I'm not?" he asked, angling himself toward her as they walked.

"Am I sleeping with your dad?" she countered, keeping her voice low.

A beat passed as he considered that.

Then, grimacing, he said, "I'd appreciate it if you never spoke those particular words in that particular order again."

"No problem," Buffy agreed, smirking at the expression on his face.

Spike nodded gratefully and turned forward again. Walked silently beside her for a minute, his eyes traveling subtly back and forth between his father and her little sister. Then he sighed, reached his hand down and let his pinky finger brush against hers.

"You think she'll ever warm up to me?" he asked quietly.

"She already is," Buffy said. At his skeptical eyebrow raise, she had an overwhelming urge to reach out and grab his hand. She didn't. "She _is_ , Spike, she's totally warming. It's not like she's being mean to you."

He inhaled deeply through his nose. "Not bein' particularly receptive to me, either."

It was true, though she'd kind of been trying to pretend like it wasn't.

It wasn't that Dawn had been...cold with Spike during the day. She hadn't been cold in her interactions with Spike at all, actually. She'd engaged with him when he'd asked her questions, laughed at jokes he'd cracked and said yes, of course, when he'd asked if she would ride with him in one of the Swan boats. She liked him, Buffy knew. It was incredibly difficult, if not downright impossible, not to.

But Dawn's priority now was looking out for her big sister, and her worry over both the nature of their relationship and the time in which it had developed was making itself known in tiny, subtle ways that Spike was more than perceptive enough to notice.

Dawn hadn't been cold, but she hadn't exactly been warm either.

"Just give her a little time and she'll get there," Buffy promised, meeting worried, azure eyes with hers. She searched them for a minute. Then smiled and reminded him, "I did."

Because it had taken her a little while, too.

" _You_ had the benefit of seein' me naked," Spike reminded her in turn, a little bit of the spark and smolder she'd seen earlier flashing across his features.

Buffy wanted to roll her eyes.

Instead, she sighed wistfully. Shook her head. "You're right, you are way more likeable with your shirt off."

"I know," Spike said, sounding burdened.

"It's a shame," she murmured.

"A right bloody one," he agreed.

They both slowed their walks and locked eyes, sharing another one of those flirtatious, secretive looks. The perfectly smooth skin across his cheeks and jaw were sun kissed, the bridge of his nose showing just the hint of red from where he'd rubbed the sunblock away earlier. His eyes were tender on hers, the golden haze of pre-sunset light making them shine. Making his lips look soft.

If they'd been alone, she would have kissed him.

But they weren't.

"Here we go," Henry announced, stopping under an old looking painted sign that had "nostalgia factor" written all over it. He grinned at the blondes as they turned to face him. "Best burgers in Boston, right here. Have you been here before, Buffy?"

She didn't answer him right away, still too busy reading and re-reading the name of the pub emblazoned on the hanging sign above. The Sevens.

The bar where she and Spike first met.

"Uh, yeah," Buffy answered now, nodding. Turning her eyes to his. "Once, when I first moved here."

Henry smiled at her and opened the door for Dawn. Looking like he might have had a legitimate twinkle in his eye, he said, "You really aren't a tourist then, are you?"

With that, they disappeared inside the bar.

"No, I guess not," Buffy murmured to herself, then looked at Spike. "Did you…?"

He answered before she could finish the question. "I had no idea."

And he for sure had a twinkle in his eye as he reached for the door handle and pulled it open for her, gesturing inside.

 ** _-Saturday, August 17th. 8:16pm-_**

Spike made a face at his dad and swallowed, shook his head. Set his beer down on the table and said, "Right, first of all, it wasn't a _year_. It was a month."

"I think it was all the same to your sister at the time," Henry told him, grinning as he took a sip from his own bottle.

The bleached blonde looked like he wanted to roll his eyes but didn't, instead shooting a wry glance in Buffy's direction. Eyes on her face, like he was looking for her reaction. Pleased when he saw the perma-smile still on her face.

"Like Dru was such an angel?" he asked her, his voice a conspiratorial stage whisper across the table.

She raised her eyebrows but made no comment, sipping on the beer Henry'd insisted on buying for her. She'd already heard the ink tea story from Spike, but hearing his dad re-tell it was even better. Watching the two men bicker and banter back and forth, disputing the finer points of the story's facts, who did what and when, which of the Pratt children had started it all to begin with. They really did love each other, and it was never more obvious than when they were arguing.

In the chair beside her, Dawn gaped at Spike. "You turned your sister's teeth black for a _month_?"

He looked over at her and frowned.

"Well, I…" he began, then paused. Bit his lip. "It was more dark _grey_ than black." A beat. "It sounds worse than it was." Another beat. "Dru deserved worse than I gave ninety percent of the time."

"It's true," his father agreed on a chuckle. "Still, I'm not convinced she ever forgave you for that one." He took a sip and thought it over, then raised his bottle in mock salute. "Probably the reason she convinced you that bleaching the hell out of your hair was a good idea."

And Spike did roll his eyes now. "She didn't convince me of anythin', old man. It was a bet."

"Which you lost," Dawn teased him, looking vindicated.

"Which she _rigged_ ," he told her purposefully. Then smirked and added, "Not that I'm complaining, seein' as how the hair's only made me more devastatingly handsome."

His father shook his head. "Dream on, kid."

Three more stories, several good-natured jibes and another round of drinks later, the sun had gone down and the bar around them was getting gradually more crowded. Over the sound of tinkling glasses and retro music, the four of them laughed and chatted, relaxed. Happy.

Sun tired and pleasantly buzzed, a lightness in her arms and a tingling in her fingertips, Buffy met her boyfriend's gaze from across the table. Smiled.

He smiled back.

And then their waitress returned, setting down a large, hot plate of French fries covered in melted cheese.

"That…smells amazing," Buffy sighed, her stomach growling appreciatively at the sight.

"Tastes even better," Henry told her with a wink, using his fork to scoop some of the fries onto a small plate. "It's the day old grease."

Dawn paused with her hand halfway to the plate, wrinkling her nose. "Ew."

"I'm just gonna go wash my hands," Buffy announced to the table, the buzzing and tingling having reached their fingers up into her brain. She pushed her chair back and stood up, directing the next words at Spike. "I'll be right back."

"Alright," he said. Then leaned back in his chair, reaching around to grab for her hand and stop her as she maneuvered around him. "You want another drink?"

Normally, she would have pulled her hand out his immediately. Probably would have been more aware of the fact that both Dawn and Henry were looking at them, watching closely as they interacted.

The way things were currently though, she wasn't really thinking about it.

Shaking her head, hand still in his, she said, "I can't drink anymore beer, Spike."

She was going to start making some seriously questionable decisions if she drank anymore beer.

Spike raised an eyebrow. "A vodka rocks it is, then."

An hour and a half and her vodka on the rocks later, which she'd let Dawn have a few secret sips of along the way, Buffy and Spike were explaining animatedly to his father all about the manuscript they were working on together. She'd just finished her synopsis of the plot, detailing a few of the editing techniques Spike had been teaching her, when Henry's expression made her stop short.

"He's having you read it out loud?" he asked, a small smirk curling his mouth as he looked back and forth between the two of them now.

Buffy glanced toward Spike. "Surprisingly, it works."

" _Surprisingly_ ," he echoed drolly. Beneath the table, he nudged her knee with his.

She bit her lip to keep from smiling.

Another couple minutes later and Henry very politely excused himself to the restroom.

Dawn grabbed for the glass of diet soda in front of her and said, "You guys are the most non-subtle secret lovers ever."

Buffy frowned at her little sister. "What do you mean?"

"Aren't secret relationships supposed to be kind of secret?" She asked by way of explanation, setting her drink back down. She looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment, then sighed when they didn't seem to get it. "You guys have been all over each other all day."

Buffy sat back in her chair and frowned, the buzzing in her blood making her forget for just a second that she didn't need to be denial girl with her sister.

"We _so_ weren't all over each other," she muttered at the exact same moment Spike asked, "Noticed that, did you?"

They looked at each other and exchanged sheepish looks.

Dawn raised an eyebrow and gave a little half laugh, then held her hands up in surrender. "You guys are adults, you can do what you want." She shrugged. "It just seems like for two people with such a huge secret you aren't trying to be all that secretive, that's all."

 ** _-Saturday, August 17th. 11:33pm-_**

Spike and Buffy were alone.

Finally.

They were back in her apartment. Dawn had said goodnight, thanked Spike for the day and disappeared into the bedroom, and for the first time all day they were alone in the living room.

Spike sat down on the couch and leaned back into the cushions. Sighed. Shut his eyes.

"Tired?" Buffy asked, eyeing him from the kitchen sink.

"The good kind," he murmured in response, popping one eye open. "Forgot how much the sun can take it out of you."

"No kidding." She finished stacking the three ice cream dishes in the dishwasher and closing it, starting the cycle. "Not that the alcohol probably put much back."

He laughed appreciatively at her and nodded, opened both eyes again. Watched her as she moved out of the kitchen and back into the living room. He shifted over and patted the space on the couch cushion beside him, eyes on Buffy as she dropped down onto it with a contented sigh, tucking one leg up. Angling herself toward him.

"Did you have fun today?" he asked, brushing her hair back from her face.

"I really did." She propped her elbow up on the back of the couch and cupped the back of her neck. "When else do I get to spend an entire Saturday with you…not cooped up in the condo or lying in bed?"

Spike raised his eyebrows. "Since when do you have a problem spendin' the whole day in my bed?"

"Hey, no problems at all with that whatsoever," she explained, laughing. Quieted. Searched his eyes as he searched hers. "I just like being with you. Out there. Like it's really real…" She wet her lip and bit it. "At least for a little while."

Spike's face grew shadowed. For the first time all day, she could see the war going on in his mind. Could see the years and the weight and worry starting to creep back in, clouding his eyes, dimming the lightness she'd seen there that afternoon.

He reached up and ran his hand over the crown of her head. "It is real, luv."

Buffy smiled a little sadly.

"No, I know that. I mean…" she trailed off, chewing on the inside of her cheek. What _did_ she mean? That today was the first time since deciding to be together that she actually felt like they could _be_ together? That getting to be out in the real world for a day had changed things again? That not having to hide for a day was going to make having to hide again that much worse? Buffy couldn't stand the thought of telling him that. Any of that. So she just said, "It was a good day, that's all."

He didn't look like he believed that was exactly what she'd meant, but didn't press her. Didn't want to ruin the day they'd had, either.

"So you didn't mind Henry tagging along then?"

"Nah." Buffy smiled again and shook her head. "It's nice to see the two of you together."

Spike didn't much like the descriptor. "Nice?"

"Yes," Buffy said resolutely, giving him a teasing poke in the sternum. "For all the differences you boys seem to like to point out about each other you're practically the same person. And seeing him with you…it's—"

"Nice," he finished for her, rolling his eyes.

"Like getting this little sneak peek into what _you'd_ be like as a dad," she said on a laugh, purposefully ignoring his snark, shoving his shoulder lightly.

And Spike did that thing.

That thing where he reached up and grabbed her hand before she could pull it away, threaded his fingers through hers. Grinned. Eyes warm, glittering in delight, he pressed his lips to her knuckles.

"Liked seein' that, did you?"

Buffy's lashes fluttered as she looked at him and realized what she'd said. A beat passed between them.

"No comment," she added, her cheeks flushing as she got up off the couch.

"Don't need one," he countered, getting up to his feet, too. Curling his tongue. "You're blushing."

She made a face at him. "You're _leaving_."

"I am," Spike told Buffy, reaching for her hands. Slowly entwining their fingers. "In a minute."

He tugged her forward and kissed her.

It was their first kiss all day, warm and sweet, and she sighed. Happy. His lips still tasted faintly of sea salt and sunshine, and she ached just a little knowing it might be another three months before she got to taste them on him again.

Maybe longer.

And if she spent too long thinking about that she'd never let him leave her apartment again.

So instead of thinking about it, instead of thinking about anything other than the very real feel of his mouth moving over hers and the pressure of his hands, she held onto him. Wound her arms around his neck and clung to him, kissing him back. Loving him with her lips until her lungs began to burn and she was forced to pull away.

Breathing in, she brushed her nose over his. Asked, "A minute?"

"Mmhmm," Spike hummed, then gave her another slow kiss. "Or…ten." Another. "Twenty." One more, then he pulled back and inhaled deeply, sweeping his hands up her back. "You think Dawn would hate me more'n she already does if I stayed the night?"

Buffy sighed, her hands slipping to his shoulders. Looked at him very seriously through her lashes. "Spike," she began slowly, expression earnest, "for the last _time_ , she doesn't—"

"Hate me," he finished for her, grinning. Smug. "Yeah, I know." He gripped her hips. "But watchin' you get all worked up and overly reassuring _does_ things to me."

Buffy let out an indulgent giggle, letting him pull her tighter against him before lightly shoving at his shoulders and turning away.

"You're insane," she teased him over her shoulder, moving for the door.

"Mmm, I'm in love you mean." Spike caught her around the waist and pressed his lips against her neck. Purred, "It's essentially the same thing in my experience."

She turned her head over her shoulder to meet his eyes. "And your experience with love is…?"

"Limited at best," he agreed, the tone of his voice matching hers. Then he breathed a pleased sigh and lowered his lips to her ear. "Which is likely the explanation for why I can't seem to keep away from you."

Her skin reacted to him before her body did, tingling and covered over in goosebumps as her face warmed. Covering his arms with hers, she leaned further against him. Did her best to block out the faintly aching feeling that hadn't left her chest quite yet. Told him, "I'm feeling decidedly non-complainy about that right now."

"I'm glad," he whispered, squeezing her once. He rocked her against his chest for a silent moment, a gentle back and forth that might have lulled her to sleep if she hadn't been waiting for it. The proverbial _but_ she felt hanging in the air between them. So when he sighed and whispered, "Little sis was right, though" she couldn't say she was surprised.

"What she said back at the bar," Spike continued softly, his arms still tight around her like he was a little afraid to let go. "Reckon I've been a bit more cavalier than I should be where you're concerned, especially of late."

Buffy froze for a minute, letting the words sink in. Letting what they _meant_ sink in.

The ache in her chest pulsed once.

Then she turned around in his arms and sighed, "I figured that was coming."

"You disagree?" he asked, voice quiet, tilting his head to the side.

 _Yes._ "No."

Spike tilted his head to the side. "Terribly convincing, sweet."

"No, I mean… _no_ , I don't disagree." She bit down on her lip and looked down, thinking it over. "I think we broke every 'rule' this week at some point."

"Barring the time you refused to let me shag you on my desk, o'course."

"Of course."

Spike laughed along with her before pulling back. His expression growing clouded again, thoughtful. His brow furrowed. Again, Buffy knew what was coming before he said it.

"All kidding aside, we should be more careful, pet." He lifted her hand and kissed the pad of her thumb. _"I_ should be more careful."

It wasn't rocket science. Wasn't brain surgery. She knew what being more "careful" translated to where they were concerned, and even though it was so often her that argued they weren't being careful _enough_ , she hated the idea right now. Of not seeing him as often as she wanted to. Not seeing him whenever she wanted to. This was the part she'd been dreading all day long, the part where their relationship took that dreaded turn back into feeling like an affair, the secretive territory where every action they made toward one another had to be carefully calculated.

She wondered if it wouldn't have been quite so hard to swallow if she hadn't let him break so many rules the week before.

"If this is just about what happened tonight," she began slowly, "what Dawn said—"

But Spike shook his head.

"It's not, Buffy. Not really. It's about me comin' here. About us sharin' an office." He sighed and brushed his thumb over her cheek, clearly feeling as torn as she did. "As much as I cherish every blessed _second_ I spend with you, and as much as I love seeing you sittin' across from me every day, it's getting harder and harder for me to separate the two." Wrapping his arms slowly around her waist to illustrate, he said, "Where I can be like _this_ with you and where I can't."

Buffy pressed her lips together, knowing he was right. Not liking that he was right. Then she nodded once and looked up. "Hence, all the rule breakage."

"Exactly," Spike said, like he knew even though she was agreeing with him that she didn't really _want_ to be. He reached up and cupped her face between his hands like she was something painfully precious, his voice honeyed. "Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me the lines between what we do in private and what we do in public aren't blurrin' just the tiniest bit for you?"

No.

Of course she couldn't.

There wasn't a thing, not one _single_ thing, about them and their togetherness that wasn't blurring every line she'd ever had the good sense to draw. That's what they did, she realized. Blurred lines. _Crossed_ lines. Took things that were supposed to be all neat and tidy and wrapped up in pretty black and white bows and turned them all around. Mixed them up.

It was all grey area now.

And Buffy was beginning to worry she was getting too comfortable inside of it.

 ** _-Monday, August 19th. 9:45am-_**

Monday morning came too fast.

After an extremely lazy Sunday morning, a huge brunch Spike had come back over and insisted he be allowed to make for "his" girls and a relaxing afternoon of shopping with Faith, Buffy and Dawn had stayed up later then they probably should have on Sunday night. Not doing much of anything at all except watching _I Love Lucy_ re-runs and talking about nothing at all. They'd laid in her bed and eaten junk food, the kind of crap they'd stopped eating ages ago, and talked. Not about Spike, which was both surprising and kind of nice, but about other things. Little things. Memories of their mom, Giles, their childhood. Their futures.

And when Monday morning finally arrived, it came too fast.

Standing just inside the main lobby of the airport now, arms crossed over her chest, Buffy eyed her little sister and felt sad. One weekend hadn't been long enough, and even though the sisters had already planned another long weekend during the beginning of Dawn's Thanksgiving break, three whole months seemed like forever away to her.

"Do you have everything you came with?" she asked.

Dawn nodded, then made a face. "Plus, like, five extra pounds from all the eating. I feel like a sausage or something."

"Well you don't look like one," Buffy promised, reaching out to run her fingers through a lock of the younger girl's silky chestnut hair. "I'm really glad you came."

"Me, too." Dawn reached up and took Buffy's hand. Squeezed it, then raised an eyebrow. "Spike  
still think I hate him?"

"Yep." She let go of Dawn's hand.

Her little sister frowned. "Even after I was all complimentary of his breakfast making abilities?'

"Yep."

"He's too sensitive," Dawn told her plainly.

"I know," Buffy agreed. Shrugged. "I think it's cute."

"You would," the younger Summers muttered wryly. Then, glancing over Buffy's shoulder toward the digital Departures board, she sighed. "I should probably head toward security soon, the flight'll be boarding in like thirty minutes."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed half-heartedly. Then, "Hey, do me a favor and tell Giles hi for me?"

Dawn looked surprised.

Then she quickly recovered, covering for the surprise by nodding quickly.

"Sure. Or, and hear me out 'cause I know this is crazy…" She trailed off for dramatic effect, widening her eyes. "You could pick up the phone and tell him yourself."

Buffy tilted her head to the side and deadpanned, in a mimicry of her sister's words the night before, "Baby steps."

"Fine, fine," her sister grumbled. Crossed her arms. "Sissy."

She chuckled and shoved the other girl playfully, pushing her in the direction of the security arrow. "Hey, no name calling."

"Buffy?"

 _Oh, God._

Buffy froze in place, every muscle in her body locking in place as she nearly tripped and fell into her sister. She swallowed. Hoped against any, every and all hope that she hadn't heard right, that she hadn't heard the voice she'd _thought_ she'd heard. It was possible. Completely. Since she'd only ever heard the voice she'd just thought she'd heard once or twice before.

There was only one way to find out.

Forcing herself to turn around, her heels catching a little in the carpet as she did, her throat closed up.

Cecily Pratt. Right there. In all her tiny, perfectly coiffed, impeccably styled glory. Standing across the airport lobby, looking even more painfully flawless then she had the last time she'd seen her. The petite brunette was smiling, waving. Looking almost relieved.

Then she hiked her purse onto the crook of her slender arm and started heading toward them.

"Oh, _God_ ," Buffy breathed out loud this time, eyes going wide.

This wasn't happening. Couldn't be. Hadn't Spike said she wasn't coming back from London until tomorrow? Not that it mattered what Spike had said, because he'd clearly been wrong.

Because his wife was very much _here_. Now.

"What?" Dawn asked next to her, clearly confused. "Buffy, what…who is that? And why is she coming toward us?" A beat as she looked back at her sister. "And why does your face look like that?"

"Shut up," Buffy hissed through the side of her mouth, the painfully bright smile she'd managed to plaster onto her face on instinct. She stood up straighter as the other woman reached them, the nails of her right hand digging down through the fabric of her blazer and into her arm.

"Mrs. Pratt," she said very specifically, hoping Dawn would take the hint. "Hi."

"Oh, good," Cecily breathed, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the gauzy, paper-white straps of her dress. "I thought that was you. Would've been terribly embarrassing otherwise."

Oh, yeah, _terribly_ embarrassing.

As opposed to what was happening now.

"Yep, it's me." Buffy swallowed, wet her lips. Tried to remember her normal social cues. "Umm, how are you?"

Good. Polite, good.

"Much better now that I'm on solid ground again," Cecily insisted, digging down into her purse and pulling out a tube of rosy lipstick. Popping the cap and reapplying it in one, smooth stroke, she added, "Air travel might be convenient but it's quite far from natural, isn't it?"

"I've never been a big fan of flying," Buffy agreed.

 _Or having awkward conversations in airports with my boyfriend's wife._

"So, what brings you to Logan International, Buffy?" The older woman capped her lipstick and smiled, cat like, watchful, and slipped it back inside her purse. "Is Will actually letting you out of his sight long enough for you to go on holiday?"

Well, that sounded a little on the loaded side.

And Buffy didn't know why hearing Cecily talk about her own husband so casually made her skin tighten and itch. It just felt wrong to be standing face to face, listening to her bandy about his common name in a voice that sounded either threatening or affectionate, she couldn't really tell.

And she'd asked her a question.

"Oh," Buffy said, shaking her head. "No. I was just dropping someone off. Uh, my sister actually." She turned toward said sister like she'd suddenly just remembered she wasn't alone. "Dawn, this is—"

Cecily extended her hand out to the younger girl and purred the introduction for her. "Cecily Pratt, lovely to meet you." Her eyes flashed subtly, barely at all, and she added, "Your sister works for my husband."

A long, quiet beat went by without any of them speaking.

Then Dawn let go of Cecily's hand and said flatly, "Oh."

The older woman blinked a few times, puzzled. Or maybe amused. Her pink bow of a mouth was curving slightly.

"Oh?" she repeated.

Buffy pressed her lips together in a tight line, her own lashes fluttering one too many times as she looked down into her bag and pretended to search for something. Fought the urge to elbow her sister in the ribs.

"No, not _oh_ ," Dawn amended quickly, talking with her hands now. A nervous habit both girls had picked up from their mother. "I just meant…I've heard a lot about you."

Oh.

 _God_.

Buffy pulled her hand back out of her bag and slapped the first thing she'd found, a pack of sugar free gum she'd never opened, into her sister's outstretched palm. The action, and the accompanying noise, had both Cecily and Dawn turning their attention back toward her.

Smiling tightly, she cleared her throat and said, "Dawnie, you're gonna miss your flight if you don't go now."

Dawn nodded, understanding.

"Right." She took the gum and stuffed it down into her own purse, then turned and reached for Buffy, wrapping her arms tightly around her and squeezing. In her ear, sounding worried, she whispered, "I'll call you as soon as I land."

Which actually meant something along the lines of _I'm sorry, everything's fine, just relax_. With the added caveat of _I want every single detail of what happens after I leave later tonight_.

"Okay," the older girl agreed, hidden subtext and all, squeezing her back. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Dawn hugged Buffy for one more long second before pulling away again, hoisting her carryon bag higher onto her shoulder. Then, with just a slightly too-sweet edge to her voice, she said, "It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Pratt."

Cecily either didn't notice the saccharine sharpness, or didn't care. Just smiled at her as she was turning to leave and purred, "You, too."

Neither of the women left behind spoke for a moment, Buffy standing very still and watching her sister wave goodbye, round the corner toward the security gate. She waited it out, muscles and nerves on edge, until she saw Dawn completely disappear from view before she turned back toward Spike's wife. Finding the sweet-looking brunette already gazing at her, she took a deep breath and smiled once more, trying her best to focus on being polite and normal.

You know, instead of cutting and running full tilt toward the nearest exit like she wanted to.

"Well, it was good to see you," she lied, all forced politeness and pinching cheeks. Gesturing with her hand in the direction of the automatic doors, she took a stuttering side step toward them. "I should probably get back to work."

Unmoving, Cecily asked evenly, "Is that where you're headed now? Back to William?"

Buffy blinked, panicking for a heart-poundingly long second before she realized that _back to work_ could technically, appropriately, be interpreted as _back to Spike_.

Then she nodded.

"Mr. Pratt said he needed me back by noon," she explained, feeling bizarre again for having to refer to him so formally. Not like there was any way in hell she'd call him Spike in front of _her_ , but still.

Bizaroness abounded.

It got worse a moment later when a knowing little smile spread across Cecily's face, both shrewd and somehow also sincere. "Well, you mustn't keep him waiting then."

Buffy nodded again, swallowing.

The older woman turned away from her and scanned the crowd milling around the front of the lobby, waving when she spotted whoever it was she'd been looking for.

"Do you have a car here?" she asked absently, casting Buffy a sidelong glance.

"I was just going to get a cab, actually," she told her, again pointing toward the automatic glass doors and the line of taxis waiting beyond them.

To her freedom.

Something Cecily didn't seem to understand. Or understood _too_ well.

Buffy couldn't quite tell which it was as the brunette scoffed and shook her head, saying, "Nonsense. I'm already heading back in that direction, why don't you let me drop you off?" She tilted her head to the side. "It's the least I can do."

That sounded weird. Felt weird.

Hackles up, Buffy stared at the other woman. The least she could do for _what_?

"Really, Mrs. Pratt," she insisted, shaking her own head, that strange feeling still fluttering in her stomach and making her knees wobble. "It's fi—"

Cecily cut her off with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"I won't take no for an answer," she commanded, the soft expression on her face and lightness in her tone belying the force in the words.

And Buffy found herself stuck.

Caught. Confused. Not knowing what would be more damning in the end, which answer would do more damage. If she insisted and said no, would it look too much like she couldn't stomach being near the other woman for the whopping fifteen minutes it would take to get from the airport to Pratt? Would that make her look guiltier than just biting the bullet and being virtually held captive for those same fifteen minutes? Forced to make small talk and trying her best not to say anything too revealing.

In her mind, the whole thing had begun to feel like a test, and she wasn't sure if she was going to be able to pass either way.

But…fifteen minutes. She could hold her own for fifteen _measly_ minutes.

Couldn't she?

It was with that abnormally self-assured thought that Buffy returned the smile of her boyfriend's pretty wife and said, "Okay, sure."

And right choice or wrong, she was about to find out.


	22. Chapter 22

**_-Monday, August 19th. 11:04am-_**

Spike was standing behind his desk when Buffy finally made it to his office. Left hand tucked safely into the pocket of his grey slacks, right hand holding the sheets of paper he was perusing, trusty red pen tucked comfortingly behind his ear. He looked completely relaxed. Casual.

Not at all like someone who was about to get the kind of news she was about to tell him.

She should have come straight to him, she knew. As soon as she'd stepped off the elevator she should have made a bee-line straight to his office and spilled her guts right then and there. That's what she'd been thinking. That had been her plan.

Totally.

So why she'd gone to sit at her own cubicle for twenty minutes first, Buffy still wasn't even sure. Why she'd sat and numbly clicked through her e-mail, stared unseeing at the stack of pre-addressed envelopes on her desk, made mumbling, half-hearted small talk with both Cordelia and Xander…she didn't know. Self-preservation, maybe? Delaying the inevitable? Or maybe just denying it all together.

Buffy was good at that. Denying things.

But she couldn't very well delay or deny anything when he was standing right in front of her, looking so perfect, and so perfectly at ease.

He was wearing the royal purple shirt, and he looked up when she walked in.

"Ah, there's my girl." He smiled warmly at her, a happy grin that showed his dimples, then cast his eyes back down to the papers in his hand. "Everythin' go off alright at the airport?"

 _No_ probably wasn't a strong enough word.

Buffy shut the heavy door behind her and took a deep breath. "Not exactly."

When Spike looked back up, the smile was gone.

"What happened?" he asked, eyes suddenly very serious as they scanned her face. Then he tossed the papers in his hand down to the desk and picked up his cell phone, moving toward her. "Was there a problem with the plane? Does Dawn need to get put on a different flight, because I can call—"

"No, no," Buffy said, cutting him off, putting one hand palm out to stop him. She shook her head. "Everything's fine."

But the words rang hollow in the small room.

Spike paused, but his handsome brow furrowed. "You just said—"

"Well, not _everything_ ," she amended quickly, cutting him off again as she stepped further into the office. "But the plane is fine. And Dawn is fine. More than fine, in fact, because _Dawn,"_ she emphasized, dropping her bag down to the ground with a thud, _"_ is halfway back to California by now, where it's safe."

She was rambling just a little, and not making sense to him at all if the expression on his face was any indication, but it didn't matter. That seemed to be the theme of the morning anyway.

Frowning, raising a single scarred brow, Spike asked, "Doesn't California have a higher crime index than Massachusetts?"

"Sure," Buffy agreed with a nod, her voice sounding eerily calm and entirely mismatched with how her insides felt. "But I bet it's got a much lower index of women you're married to."

The furrowed brow furrowed deeper, and Spike set his cell phone down. Began walking toward her once more, moving slowly around the big mahogany desk like he was trying not to spook her.

"Right," he said, stopping and pausing at the corner. Eyeing her warily, he hedged, "You lost me."

Of course she had, she was practically speaking in riddles.

Buffy forced herself to meet his eyes, feeling pathetic and oddly inadequate. It was a feeling she hadn't quite been able to shake since the airport, amplified by the niggling guilt she felt at the fact that she'd waited so long to come in here and tell him what had happened.

Sighing once, she murmured, "Cecily's back from England."

Spike folded his arms and frowned down at her, confused.

She didn't know what she'd been expecting him to say to that, or what she'd been expecting him to do. Not exactly, anyway. What she _did_ know was that she'd expected just a little more of a reaction than the one he was giving her now. Didn't her straight forward admission deserve a little more than just a furrowed brow?

Narrowing his eyes, he began, "How do you…" Then he trailed off. Widened his eyes. Sat down on the edge of his desk. "Oh."

There. _That_ was more what she'd expected.

Surprisingly, his reaction, or the fact that he seemed to _have_ a reaction, calmed her. Just a little. Made her feel less insane for feeling so panicked. Which maybe didn't make sense either, but nothing in the last hour had so why should things start now?

Buffy stepped forward and closed her eyes, sinking down onto the edge of her leather chair

"She came right over to me, Spike," she breathed as she remembered it, reaching up and pressing her fingers to both temples. "Introduced herself to Dawn. Made...weird, creepily nice small talk with me." She opened her eyes again. "The whole thing was so—"

"Wiggy," he supplied for her.

Buffy half-laughed at his use of the word, then nodded. "Took the word right out of my mouth."

Things were quiet for a moment. Strained, awkward. Like neither of them were exactly sure what was supposed to happen next, or what to say. It was obvious from the considering expression on Spike's face that he had questions for her, and it didn't take a whole lot of guesstimation on Buffy's part to know what they were. She knew, somewhere in her muddled mind, that she could beat him to the punch if she wanted to. Spare him the effort of having to ask, of having to carefully pick and prod his way through her jumbled brain, and just... _tell_ him what had happened. Everything that had happened. Everything that was said.

She knew that, logically. Was thinking exactly that as she sat on the edge of her chair and gazed up at him, biting down on the inside of her cheek. She could tell him. Would tell him.

You know, just...after her throat didn't feel so painfully dry and she felt she could form the words without crying. Not that the words themselves made her _want_ to cry, exactly, but that had always been her reaction to frustration. To helplessness.

God, no one she'd ever met before had been able to render her as frustrated and helpless as Cecily Pratt.

Feeling the hot, bitter sting of wetness at the corners of her eyes again now, she dropped her gaze down to the patterns of the rug below her feet. Cleared her throat in an attempt to loosen her tongue. Waited for Spike to say something else, because all she _could_ really do now was sit and wait for him to ask.

Which he did, a moment later.

"What all did she say to you?"

Buffy blinked a few more times and, once her vision had cleared again, raised her head. Stared unblinkingly up at him. Doubted he even knew how supremely loaded that question was.

Then she opened her mouth to tell him and promptly froze.

For one second, maybe two, she considered not telling him. She wasn't even sure why. She'd already started to tell him, anyway. Had come this far already just admitting that she'd seen Cecily, so why was she hesitating now? How much worse could she really make things anyway? It couldn't possibly make that much of a difference in the long run. Not after everything the older woman had told her in the car.

No. Spike deserved to know everything that Buffy knew, if for no other reason than to be able to better prepare for it.

Buffy just didn't want to have to be the one to tell him.

But what choice did she have now?

"Oh, ya know," she began slowly, casually, an airiness to her voice that made it sound not quite hers. She shrugged. "Just your…basic, standard greeting. Hi. How are you. Lovely weather we're having." She paused and looked down into her lap, fiddling with the bottom button on her blazer as she added quietly, "Let me give you a ride to the office."

There was a half second pause.

Then Spike got back up to his feet with a very loud, " _What_?"

"I know," Buffy said immediately, jumping back up to her feet too. "Let me explain."

"Cecily _drove_ you here?" Spike asked pointedly, his voice a low hiss as he leaned closer to her. His expression was more worried than angry, but Buffy could feel her throat doing that closing up thing again, and her eyes were beginning to burn.

"Well, n-no," she stammered feebly, taking a small step back. "Technically it was her driver that—"

"Buffy," he said impatiently, planting his hands on his hips.

She swallowed and nodded once.

"Christ," Spike muttered, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "Buried the lead a little bit there, don't you think, pet?"

Buffy bit into her bottom lip and watched, not speaking, as he seemed to think that over. He stood very still for a moment, then he sighed, turning sparkling azure eyes back to her face. She braced herself for the impact of his frustration, the tell-tale ticking of the muscle in his jaw. It didn't come.

Instead, he softened and asked, "Are you alright?"

That wasn't even in the same zipcode as what she'd been expecting. Was he honestly standing there asking her if _she_ was alright?

Blinking wide eyes at him, she frowned. "Me?"

Spike surprised her again by chuckling.

"Bloody hell," he breathed, then nodded. Crossed the small space left between them and reached up to push a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Yes, you. Last time the two of you had a run in you weren't feelin' so hot afterward."

She gazed across at him, her eyes burning again.

Yes, she remembered that. That moment in the office all those weeks ago, the way Cecily had looked at her, the carefully crafted words she'd spoken. Buffy remembered how certain she'd felt, even all those weeks ago, that Cecily knew. That she definitively _knew_ what was going on between the two of them. She'd been sure of it then, and it had only been Spike's quiet, confident assurance that she was wrong that had ended up talking her off the ledge. That had kept her from running away again. He had seemed so sure of himself then, too. Just as sure she'd felt herself. He'd seemed to know that they weren't in any danger of being found out. That Cecily couldn't have possibly known about them, or what they'd done.

Buffy knew now that he'd been wrong.

She steadied herself for a moment, reaching up and grabbing his hand to pull it gently away from her face.

Then she told him, "She knows, Spike."

 ** _-Monday, August 19th. 10:04am-_**

Cecily was seated in the back of the hired car beside Buffy, her eyes steady, fixed on the younger woman as her driver zigged and zagged expertly through the busy lanes of traffic.

It was way too quiet.

It had _been_ way too quiet ever since they'd gotten in the car together, but it was even more way too quiet now. Not having known what to say other than an awkwardly mumbled "thank you for the ride", Buffy had mostly kept her own mouth shut, and Cecily for her part hadn't seemed to have too terribly much to say.

Well, through her mouth anyway. Her eyes were a different story.

The cool, hazel gaze seemed to be saying enough for both of them.

Buffy felt it the second the older woman finally took her attention off her because everything lightened, and despite the oppressive grey light outside, she could suddenly breathe again. Pulling in a deep, but appropriately subtle, breath through her nose, she chanced a quick peek to her left. She was just in time to see Cecily lean her head back onto the seat rest behind her and turn her eyes to look out the window.

It was raining.

"It's always strange returning here after being in England," Cecily said after a moment, her gaze focused on the skyline. The lilt of her accent was quiet against the whir of passing cars and horns outside the window. "This city, for all its many charms...I've just never found it to feel much like home." She darted a quick, curious look back to her right. "Do you like it here, Buffy?"

It was the first direct question she'd been asked since leaving.

Clutching her bag tightly in her lap, trying to take up as little space in the back seat as possible, Buffy nodded. "I do, yeah." And then, because her nervous brain was telling her equally nervous lips to fill the pressing silence, she added, "I mean…it's been hard to be away from my sister, for sure. A-and it's obviously completely different than where I'm from. But I, uh, yeah," she took a breath, nodded, "I really do like it here."

 _God._

Cecily just smiled disarmingly and cocked her head to the side. "Are you considering making Boston your forever home someday?"

"I haven't really thought about it," Buffy lied, trying to keep her answering smile as disarming as possible.

The other woman nodded thoughtfully, turning that response over in her head. She drummed her fingers against the leather of her purse, casting another sidelong glimpse out the window as the car hummed along.

Then she glanced back again. "If you were offered a permanent position at Pratt, would you think about it?"

Buffy's shoulders stiffened a little, warning sounds beginning to clang in her head. _Caution, trick question ahead._

"I'm not expecting that," she answered quickly, the plastered in place smile falling just a bit.

And Cecily laughed, the sound bright like bells.

"I didn't say you were," the brunette assured, her voice sweet and soothing as she turned on the seat and angled herself fully toward Buffy. She studied her face for a quick moment, then asked, "Would you want to work for Pratt if the opportunity presented itself?"

It _was_ a trick question, Buffy was almost one hundred percent sure of it now. The real problem at the moment, though, was she wasn't exactly sure what the trick involved was. And she couldn't stall or be all avoidy about it forever, not without ending up looking even more suspicious.

Feeling stuck, she decided to give a non-committal nod and said, "Of course. But like I said, I'm really not-"

"I know you're not." Cecily waved a delicate hand dismissively. "I was just curious. Anyway, how is Will?" She glanced down into her purse as she said his name, a note of near-painful nonchalance in her voice that had Buffy's hair standing on end again. "I feel like I haven't spoken with him in ages."

Buffy felt her insides tighten and flip upside down.

Cecily had brought Spike up plenty of times before, but she hadn't…she'd never specifically asked _Buffy_ about him. Not that way. Not like the other woman knew Buffy might know better than she did herself how he was doing. Openly admitting she hadn't spoken to him at the very least since being gone, in well over a week, seemed like baiting. Or trawling. Something with some kind of fishing metaphor. In one quick, seamless instant, Cecily had placed Buffy on the defensive and put her in a position where virtually any answer she gave would be an incriminating one.

It was a position Buffy didn't know how to navigate, and as the seconds of silence dragged on between them, she felt her palms beginning to sweat.

Cecily eyed the younger woman expectantly, one brow raised, a soft smirk on the curve of her pink lips. And Buffy was frozen, her mind spinning as she wondered desperately what to say and how to say it.

 _Just say_ something _._

"Umm, he's…good," she finally managed. Then swallowed and quickly added, "I think. Busy."

Cecily laughed again. It was a quick, almost bitter sounding chuckle as she turned her attention back in the direction of the window, the looming skyline just beyond it. Her expression suddenly hardened.

"Of course he is," she murmured, shaking her head. Then, as if realizing she'd just let her mask slip, she inhaled and twisted a bright smile back on Buffy. "That man will die sitting at his desk, I swear it. Has he been giving you any more to do or is he keeping all the good jobs for himself?"

Buffy decided her best bet was to pretend she hadn't noticed the crack in the façade, deciding instead to play full tilt into the hand the other woman was dealing.

She offered her own bright smile and nodded, saying, "Actually, he did give me a project. Um, my own manuscript. He's working through it with me, but I'll get to pitch it to editorial by myself at the end of my internship."

Cecily smiled wider, and for a split second Buffy wondered if maybe she'd somehow overplayed her own hand and shared too much.

"Big news, indeed." The cool eyes gave a none-so-subtle flash. "He must think very highly of you."

"He's taught me a lot," Buffy hedged carefully, now back to guarding her words.

And the subtext in the pretty brunette's next response wasn't missed on either of them.

"I'm certain he has."

The two women stared evenly at one another, the uneasiness only broken when the hired car slid down the highway's off ramp and shuddered to a jolting stop at a red light.

Leaning forward and glancing up at the street sign in front of them, Cecily sighed and sat back again. "We'll be to the office in five minutes or so," she said matter of factly, then her lips curved up like she was about to tell some self-aware joke and she added, "Maybe I'll go up with you when we get there, say hello to William."

There was something in her voice when she said that, something hollow and almost sad, that made Buffy frown. It had been like a joke, an inside joke, and one she wasn't sure she understood completely. One she wasn't sure how to respond to.

"I'm sure he'd be happy to see you," she said simply, mostly because she didn't know what else to say.

It was a lie, and it sounded like a lie, and both women seemed to know it was a lie as they sat beside each other on the squeaky leather seat. Suddenly Cecily smiled again, but this time it wasn't forced. Letting out a small, breathless laugh, she glanced down into her lap. Folded her hands together and then sighed, looking up again.

"It's alright, Buffy," she said.

Buffy felt her lashes flutter. "What's alright?"

The older woman pinned her with a steady, even look and asked, "Are we honestly going to keep on pretending you don't know the state of my marriage?"

The knots in Buffy's stomach constricted.

 _No._

"It makes sense that he would tell you," Cecily continued, plowing on full speed ahead, either oblivious to or enjoying the stricken expression on Buffy's face. "I understand the two of you have grown quite close."

 _God, no._

"I don't...think I'd use the word _close_ ," she faltered, a nervous little titter escaping her lips before she could stop it.

Cecily looked thoroughly unconvinced.

"But you are friends, aren't you?" she pressed calmly, tipping her head to the side and arching a perfect brow.

There was a funny emphasis on the word friends that made it more difficult for Buffy to swallow.

"No," she said immediately, shaking her head. Then shut her eyes, squeezed them and amended in a rush, "I mean, yes, but..." she opened her eyes again. "It's really more of a mentor, mentee thing than...anything."

God, why did everything she say sound so _stupid_?

"And is that why you spent the entire weekend together?" Cecily asked, not one trace of accusatory edge in her voice. Instead it was gentle and coaxing, her expression open and calm.

Which was worse.

Buffy felt her eyes beginning to burn. She felt trapped. Confused. Helpless.

"We didn't spend the entire weekend together," she lied again, at a loss to do anything else but deny what was now so painfully, obviously true.

And the lie must have been the last straw, because Cecily rolled her eyes to the roof of the car, the last remainder of the carefully cultivated mask she'd worn slipping and shattering to the ground as she barked, "Oh, for Heaven's sake, Buffy. You're sleeping with my husband, the least you can do is be honest with me."

Everything abruptly stopped.

The sound of the rain, the hum of the engine, the rocking motion of the car as it continued to drive…it all faded away, replaced by the hollow thump of her pulse and a ringing in Buffy's ears that was so much more than warning bells.

"W-what?" she managed, the single word breathless and pale. She couldn't form a coherent thought, let alone a coherent sentence.

Cecily either didn't hear her, or didn't care to address that she had. Instead, she breathed a deep, almost relieved sigh and leaned her shoulders back into the seat. Her eyes were still on Buffy's, taking in the horrified expression on her face.

"I'm sorry," the older woman said, sounding like she genuinely was. "That was crass. I'm sure you're not _just_ sleeping with him. Fancy yourself in love with him as well."

Everything was moving again now, but much too fast. Spinning in rapid, uncontrollable circles. The sound of the rain splattering the windows had picked up to a near deafening stream, the windshield wipers a constant, grating whir in the background. Her face was hot, her eyes stung, her throat was somehow dry _and_ wet as she tried to breathe in and out.

Like she was drowning and swallowing sand paper at the same time.

Attempting to speak without sounding like she felt the way she did, Buffy began, "Mrs. Pratt—"

"Of course," Cecily continued on breezily. "I don't have any hard evidence or _real_ proof of that just yet, other than the fact you currently look like a doe in headlights." She reached into her purse and pulled out her lipstick, adding, "But this is Will's first experience with something like this, so he's bound to slip up eventually."

It was happening.

Buffy almost couldn't believe it was _finally_ happening.

"Mrs. Pratt," she tried again, louder this time, more just to get the other woman to stop talking than because she actually had something to say. Her stomach pitched as the car rolled to a stop once more. "I don't—"

"Call me Cecily," the brunette instructed casually.

Buffy sat back, blinking. Oh, this was all too much.

"Cecily." The name caught in the back of her throat, but she managed to get it out. "Please, don't..." she trailed off, stuck. Having no idea what else she could possibly say that wouldn't be an out and out lie, she bit down on her lip. Tried a different direction. "There are a _lot_ of lines I'm pretty sure we've crossed just now."

The lovely brunette seemed to find that truly amusing. "Oh, you think we've only crossed them just now?"

The indifference in her voice might as well have been a slap across the face.

Chastened, Buffy snapped her mouth shut. Then opened it again to say softly, awkwardly, "Mrs. Pratt…"

"Cecily," she corrected stiffly, seeming far more annoyed that she was having to remind the younger girl again than she was about the conversation they were having.

The whole thing was starting to have that bad dream quality to it.

"Cecily, I—" Buffy began once more, but stopped short as the hired car came to a final, rolling stop, the sound of the gear shift clicking into park seeming louder than it should have been.

"Ah, we're here," Cecily murmured, sounding half disappointed.

Numb, confused into silence, Buffy watched helplessly as the driver pulled an umbrella off the front passenger's seat and hopped out of the driver's side, slamming the door shut and running around the car to the curb beside her.

Cecily was till speaking.

"Meet me..." Buffy turned her eyes back in time to see the older woman digging what looked like a business card and silver ball point out of her purse, scribbling hastily on the back of it as she continued, "tonight, 9:00 o'clock. This address." She handed the card over to Buffy. "We'll continue this conversation then."

What…was happening?

The door popped open on her right, letting in the deafening sound of rain and a too-cold-for-late-August wind whipping into the car.

"Tonight?" Buffy asked, blinking numbly at the card in her hand, the elegant hand written address on the creamy linen cardstock.

"Are you busy?" Cecily asked back, dark brows raised expectantly.

A challenge.

And in response to that challenge, her response came immediately. "No." Then a pause to reconsider, to shake her head. To try and make some kind of sense out of whatever was happening now. "I...I mean, I don't...okay." She paused again and stared at the woman next to her. At a complete and total loss, she decided just to voice the exact question echoing around in her head. "What the hell is going on here?"

But instead of being offended or insulted by her obvious confusion, Cecily honestly seemed to be charmed by it.

"What's going on here, Buffy," she said quietly, her voice that same smooth, soothing tone it had been initially. "Is that you and I both know there is a conversation that needs to be had, and I would prefer to have that conversation somewhere more private, and more discreet. And where we can also have a good martini."

Feeling the wind and rain whipping at her calves, feeling hopelessly frozen, Buffy just stared. "You want to have a drink with me?"

Cecily smiled, another sincere, almost sad smile. "I think it can only help, don't you?"

Wordlessly, Buffy nodded. Then turned to her right and, with no other option or recourse, reached a shaking hand out and took hold of the driver's proffered arm.

Stepping out onto the rain-slick sidewalk, her knees feeling uncomfortably wobbly, she slid under the cover of the big black umbrella and tried to understand what it was that had just happened, only turning back toward the car when she heard her name being called from inside.

"Be a dear and don't tell Will about this," Cecily continued, eyes bright and earnest.

And then she nodded toward the driver and he shut the car door, leaving Buffy staring dazedly down into her own ashen reflection.

 ** _-Monday, August 19th. 12:36pm-_**

It was eerily quiet as Buffy stood before Spike now, the only sounds between them the still constant patter of raindrops on the glass of his window and her heels, the patent leather creaking as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She was watching the look on his face, frustrated that it hadn't really changed since she'd begun her story. He'd sat down on the edge of his desk again at some point as he'd listened to her, but that had been the only shift in his body language or demeanor so far. His expression hadn't changed, was still as calm and considering as ever, and Buffy was practically vibrating with a need to know what he was thinking, the desire to crawl inside his head and read what was going on there.

As the minutes ticked by, and the barrage of rain at the window beat on, she noticed that she was holding her breath. Letting it out slowly, staring at him, she waited for the other black, calfskin leather shoe to drop.

But it didn't.

In fact, neither of Spike's shoes appeared to be doing anything even close to dropping at all. He wasn't pacing around the office and cursing, like she'd expected. He wasn't yelling at her, like she'd dreaded. He wasn't even looking at her. He was just…sitting there, his arms folded against his chest and his lips pursed thoughtfully, azure eyes down on the rug. Seeming very calm, and very collected. And not at all the picture of man who was very likely about to lose everything.

He wasn't wigging out.

 _Why wasn't he wigging out?_

"Why aren't you saying anything?" Buffy finally blurted out, breaking the silence and causing the man in front of her to physically flinch.

Spike looked up at her, steady blue eyes rimmed in fluttering black as he blinked a few times and just gazed at her for a moment.

Then, slowly, he said, "I'm thinking."

She fought the urge to roll her eyes, trying to be sensitive to the amount of information she knew she'd just unloaded on him. _There are two of us in the room here, buddy_.

"Okay," she said back, just as slowly. "But _what_ are you thinking?"

Another too-long, _I'm still thinking_ moment went by, Spike never taking his gaze off her the whole time. He was looking at her in a different way. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him look at her that way. The look on his face was almost quiet. Peaceful, the blue of his eyes soft and open.

And then he told her, "I'm thinking you should go."

Buffy took an immediate, stuttering step backward. There was no _way_ she'd heard him right. "What?"

"I think you should go see Cecily tonight," he said again, more firmly this time, turning his body so he was squarely facing her. And his eyes were still that same strong and steady as they searched hers, so she knew there was no way he didn't know what he was saying. What he was _suggesting_.

Which was out and out insanity.

"Right, go," Buffy repeated hollowly, blinking at him. A beat passed. Then, "So you've completely lost your mind."

Spike sighed.

Getting to his feet, he took a step toward her. "Buffy—"

"No. _No_ ," she snapped, feeling her own panic rising into her throat as she shifted away from him, jabbed a finger toward the ground for emphasis. "Do not Buffy me like I'm the one acting certifiable here, Spike."

Instead of trying to cross the space between them this time, he reached for her and grabbed her before she had a chance to move away again. Clasping both her wrists in his hands, he gently tugged her forward until she was standing right in front of him. Nearly nose to nose, when he spoke again his voice was low and smooth. Coaxing.

"Calm down," he murmured.

"You calm down," she fired back, knowing even as the words slipped out that they didn't make any sense. Annoyed with him and majorly flustered, and even more annoyed that she was the only one who seemed to _be_ majorly flustered, Buffy glared at him and attempted to yank her wrists out of his grip.

Spike held firm, though, managing to pull her even more closely to him. Whispering, "You're gonna give yourself a coronary if you don't relax a little, luv."

She honestly didn't feel capable of unpacking the sheer absurdity of that statement.

For God's sake, _somebody_ needed to completely wig out. He wasn't doing it, so it might as well be her.

"Relax?" Buffy repeated, indignant even as she allowed him to rub tiny circles into the backs of her hands. "How am I supposed to relax, Spike? She _knows_."

He shifted back a bit and widened his eyes as he asked her, "And flyin' into a tizzy over it isn't going to do anyone any good, is it?"

Logicked into speechlessness, Buffy could only stand there and stare at the man she loved for an extended moment and wait for the reality of their situation to catch up to her. Then she nodded her head once. Wondered just exactly which tear in the fabric of the universe they were standing inside of.

It was then that the full on bizzaroness of their current situation hit her, and she realized just how twisted around things were. Even after everything she'd just told him, somehow he was the one standing there comforting her. _He_ was telling her to relax. _He_ was the voice of reason. _He_ wasn't freaking even the slightest bit.

And there was something even more unsettling about that than if he'd panicked and completely lost it.

Frowning, looking up into his eyes, Buffy asked, "Why aren't you totally freaking?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard at first. Like maybe up until that very point he hadn't considered reacting any way other than the way he had. But now that the question was out, and the possibility had been acknowledged, he seemed to ponder it himself.

Stepping away from her, he frowned, furrowed his brow. Glanced down into the empty space between their bodies, to their entwined hands, then back up and met her eyes.

"Honestly?" Spike asked, looking almost relieved to be admitting it. "I have no bloody clue."

And then he laughed.

A genuine laugh. Not a loud belly laugh, not the kind she'd heard from him at the bar the first night, or even the kind they'd shared so many mornings over a cup of coffee or across a fluffy pillow, but a real laugh. It was soft and infectious, and quietly relieved, and Buffy watched him warily for a moment wondering if this was finally the _I've completely lost it_ reaction she'd been waiting for. But as his laughter continued on, she found herself smiling at him. And then suddenly she was laughing, too.

That settled it. They'd both gone completely insane.

The joint laughter only lasted a minute or so before it began to pitter out, leaving them once more in the closed off office with the rain on the windows. As both their laughter faded out into small, hiccupping giggles, Spike sighed. Shook his head. Let go of her hand and reached up to run his fingers through his hair, a soft, almost sad smile still in place on his lips.

"Maybe I've been expectin' this for a while now," he murmured, answering her question. His eyes were down on the ground, his hand wrapped around cupping the back of his neck. "Or maybe I just don't really care anymore. I dunno." Then he looked up again, blue eyes blazing and bright as they found hers. "What I do know is even if she thinks she's caught us out, a fat lot of good it does her without any evidence."

Her own smile gone, feeling sobered again, Buffy frowned. "We don't know she was telling the truth about that, though."

But Spike was already shaking his head.

"There're only two reasons she'd be sittin' on this if she thought she knew for certain," he said, ticking the reasons off on two long fingers as he named them. "One, she was tellin' the truth and she really doesn't have any proof, like she said. Or two," his eyes narrowed slightly, "she has something else up her sleeve all together. Only one way we're gonna figure which of those it is."

He didn't need to say it out loud for her to know what he was getting at. Not only did he think she should go meet Cecily tonight, he wanted her to go. He was thinking his wife was up to something, and her gut was telling her he was exactly right. The only problem was his plan sort of hinged on Cecily being open and honest about why she'd invited Buffy over in the first place, which seemed like way too much of a long shot to Buffy for her risk putting herself in such a vulnerable position.

Skeptical, she asked, "And you think she's just gonna tell me that?"

"She obviously plans on telling you _something_ ," he countered, unruffled, looking more and more sure of himself with each passing second. "And whatever it is, she wasn't keen on me guessin' at it beforehand."

She paused to think about that for a second.

That…was a good point. A much better point than she'd been hoping he'd be able to come up with.

Still, there were other issues to contend with.

Stomach still doing all kinds of flips and flops, Buffy bit the corner of her lip and looked down. Fidgeted with the gold band on her index finger. Wondered how best to go about bringing up the issues she really didn't feel like bringing up again. But she had to bring it up, because there had to be a reason. There had to be _some_ reason, right? Some sort of sinister, plot twisty reason why Cecily had specifically told Buffy not to mention their little get together to Spike.

Which…she had.

Pretty much immediately after the other woman had asked her not to.

Chest muscles tightening, she forced herself to meet Spike's eyes again. "What if she finds out I told you?"

He didn't seem concerned.

"Probably knew you'd tell me," Spike assured her, then looked up to the ceiling and chuckled in a way that was both somehow disgusted and admiring. "Or hoped it at least." He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, "Probably figured I'd try and stop you from goin' and she'd get herself some proof that way."

Buffy considered that, hating how reasonable it sounded. Another good point.

Another good point that made the Persian rug feel like it was being ripped out from underneath her.

She stood there, shifting her weight and gazing at Spike for a moment, chewing the inside of her cheek. Then she considered what he'd said, everything he'd said, turning her back on him and pacing in the direction of the book case on the far wall. She paused when she reached it, put one hand out and ran the tip of her nail along the spines of several green and blue colored hard backs. Thought about what he'd said. Thought about what she needed to do.

When she turned back around to face him, her heart was edging up into her throat again.

"I have to go, don't I."

It wasn't a question.

"You don't _have_ to do anything," Spike assured her quickly, and to his credit he even sounded like he meant it.

But Buffy knew now. Knew now, better than ever, how Cecily operated. The chess pieces she'd put in place, the lengths she might go to to get what she wanted.

"I do, though," she insisted, more resigned than anything else. "It'll look worse if I don't."

Spike stood still and studied her expression silently, let his gaze run all across her face and scan her eyes like he was looking desperately for something. Whether he found it or not, Buffy wasn't sure. A silent beat passed.

He nodded once.

Buffy nodded back.

Then she took three steps forward and kicked her heavy leather chair, sending it toppling to the ground.

She didn't care how much noise she was making. Didn't care who might be listening, or what impression she might be giving off. What did it even matter now? If Cecily knew, and she _did_ know, who were they hiding from? Both of their futures were in complete and total flux now, her career potential at Pratt Publishing all but dust in the wind. Buffy would never be offered a full time job at Pratt now, she knew that. Not if the company belonged solely to the wife of the man she loved.

And she would never accept a job there if Spike offered her one but she'd lose him in the process.

"I hate this," Buffy shouted, turning and reaching her hands up into her hair. "I hate feeling like she has us stuck, Spike. I hate not knowing what to do. I hate being in this position." She dropped her hands and whirled back around to face him, those damn frustrated tears in her eyes. "I hate that I've put _you_ in this position."

But he wasn't having that.

In front of her again in an instant, Spike reached out to wrap his fingers around her shoulders, pulling her in front of him and forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Hey," he said. " _You_ didn't put me anywhere, alright?" His voice was impossibly low now, and so sincere it brought a different kind of tears to her eyes. "I chose this the moment I decided to choose you. Cecily's playin' a game with us, Buffy. That's all. Just have to figure out the rules before she knows we're onto her." He slid his hand up to her face, brushing the pad of his thumb over her cheek. And then he smiled softly, the blue of his eyes sparking to life as he said, "I tell you what though...she's underestimated how much I love you if she thinks whatever scheme she's got planned'll be enough to chase me away."

Buffy lunged forward and pressed her lips to his.

Clapping her hands on either side of his face, she pulled him more tightly against her and kissed him until her lungs ached. Until her eyes stopped stinging. Until he had to wrap his own arms around her waist and hold her just to keep her upright.

The kisses were almost rough, forceful and greedy, a desperate kind of connecting that made her feel better and worse all at once. On one hand, there was some freedom in knowing that Cecily knew. On the other, it made the blissful faux reality of the perfect weekend they'd just spent together suddenly feel horribly suffocating.

So she kissed him. Kissed him because she didn't know what else to do, because she didn't want him to see her cry.

And because it felt like it might be the last time.

 ** _-Monday, August 19th. 8:54pm-_**

The address that Cecily had given Buffy turned out to be a mid-sized two-story house; an unconventional and ultra-modern structure located just north of Bunker Hill and nestled between five or six others that looked exactly like it. Being a part of a matching set didn't take away from the imposing nature of the place, though. It was…cold, and aloof feeling. The polar opposite of the warm, inviting townhome Drusilla lived in over in Beacon Hill. With hard steel lines, sharp angles and large glass windows, everything about it from Buffy's vantage point seemed to match what she already knew of its owner.

She pulled out her phone and typed a quick message to Dawn. Hit send.

 _If you don't hear from me in fifteen minutes, send search and rescue._

Hit send.

Then she pulled up the chain of texts she had going with Spike. Opened a new one. Stared down at the tiny, blank screen for a minute. Tapped her index finger against the side of her phone. Finally, she typed him a short message as well. Short, to the point. Honest.

 _I love you_.

She stared at the message a moment, and then it send on it, too.

A second later his name lit up her cell's screen and he was calling her. She ignored the phone call the same way she had vehemently ignored his insistence that he at least be allowed to go with her in the cab, knowing that if he'd been beside her, or if she picked up and heard his voice…if he tried to give her any sort of out at _all_ , she might take it. And she couldn't afford to. Not if he was right, and her not showing up tonight would be more damaging for him in the long run.

Not to mention that him being all with her in the cab sitting in front of his wife's house…well, that seemed a little dead giveaway-ish to her.

Sighing, resigned, she turned her phone on silent and stuffed it down into her purse, dug out a twenty dollar bill and handed it up to the taxi driver. He took it from her, frowning, then immediately began preparing to give her back some change. But Buffy shook her head, telling him to keep it and that she'd hopefully be right back.

Wishful thinking, maybe, but something about saying it out loud to someone else made her feel better.

"Go ahead and keep the meter running," she told him, hiking her purse up onto her shoulder. "This shouldn't take long."

He nodded at her, understanding, and put her money away, and Buffy popped the cab door open and hopped up onto the curb before she could change her mind.

She was surprised that she didn't feel nervous.

It might have been because she'd spent the entire afternoon with Spike and he'd been so eerily calm about the whole thing. Or it might have been the pep talk she'd had on the phone with her sister before leaving her apartment. You know, after Dawn had finished telling her how mega insane she was for going in the first place.

Hell, it might have even been the reassuringly-all-caps "GO GET 'EM, TIGER" Faith had left scribbled on their fridge's magnetic white board before leaving for work herself that evening. Whatever the reason was, Buffy was grateful for it now as she ascended the white limestone steps onto the porch and approached the glass front door.

She inhaled through her nose one more time and rang the doorbell.

Cecily was there in mere moments it seemed, appearing around a high wall of white that matched the white dress she was still wearing from earlier. Heels clicking against the dark hardwood floor, she reached for the latch with a smile and a quick four-fingered wave through the glass. Pulled it open, held it wide.

"You're early," she said. Buffy noticed her eyes dart toward the cab still idling at the curb, then immediately back again. She shifted back in the doorway and gestured inside, still smiling. "Here, please, come in."

Buffy didn't smile back.

Wary, every muscle in her shoulders tight enough to snap, she stepped into the house behind her hostess and gave a cursory glance around the small entryway. There were two large, floor to ceiling paintings hanging on either side; some awful, color blocked pieces of modern art that she would probably never "get" but that she was sure had cost a fortune.

The sheer opulence of them hanging there right at the front of the house made her feel sort of funny.

Behind her, Cecily shut the door and skirted around, heels clicking over the wooden flooring again as she looked over her shoulder and asked Buffy to follow her.

She did, clutching the shoulder strap of her purse with one hand and maneuvering her way around the sharp corner the other woman had appeared around earlier. The corner turned into a long, lean hallway, again lined with various pieces of art along the walls, until finally opening up into a small alcove leading to the kitchen on one side, and into a large, open room straight head.

It had surprisingly high ceilings, and Buffy realized as she stepped further into it that this particular room stretched vertically through both the main and upper story of the house. Equal parts impressed and quietly unsettled, Buffy glanced around the room. More brightly colored art, a row of massive picture windows along the back wall, and a large, low teakwood coffee table. There was a matching bar cart on the left side of the room, a silver shaker bottle and set of martini glasses resting on top of it.

"Sit," Cecily said, sweeping her hand out toward the cream linen sectional at the center of the room.

It was the only piece of true "furniture" in the room, long and angular like the rest of the house. It was nestled on top of a snowy white area rug, directly in front of an eggshell colored brick fireplace. The pillows, Buffy noted, were a different shade of cream as well, and it made the muscle in her jaw ache that instead of looking overdone or redundant, the monochromatic color scheme only made the room seem more elegant.

From her position over at the bar cart, the brunette asked, "Can I fix you something?"

Buffy turned to look at her, watching as she poured the clear, strained liquid from the shaker into one of the glasses and then looked up expectantly.

Yeah, no way.

Not only was she so very _not_ in the mood for a drink, but she knew she needed to keep her wits about her. Spike had done what he could to prepare her for this little tete-a-tete tonight, and one of the things he'd mentioned was that, if Cecily was indeed looking for proof, she might try and get it through means of coercion. And not that Buffy was totally paranoid or anything, but the offering of alcohol seemed…coercive.

Not to mention she couldn't be one hundred percent sure what was _in_ the alcohol being offered. And again, while Buffy was completely not paranoid, and she _so_ didn't think somewhere in the back of her head that Cecily had lured out to her home to murder her and bury her under the floorboards, she also wasn't about to test that theory.

 _So…_ "No," she said tightly, consciously not sitting. Still clutching her purse. "Thank you."

Cecily frowned, looking genuinely disappointed. "You're not really going to make me drink alone?"

 _Of course I am, my boyfriend's_ wife _._ "I'm not thirsty."

There was a long, verging on eerily quiet pause as the two women regarded each other from across the room; Cecily with a small, almost mischievous smile on her lips and Buffy, her knuckles turning white around her bag's strap as she wondered again if she'd made a mistake in coming.

The whole thing seemed surreal to her, and not just because it was already going so very close to how she'd expected it to. She still wasn't nervous exactly, though her feet seemed to be hovering precariously close to the proverbial edge. She was more just…alert.

She and Spike had decided their best bet was for Buffy to go in operating under the assumption that this was a hunting mission for Cecily, and that she was searching for any kind of tip or confirmation that her suspicions about her husband and his intern were true. So she was being cautious, knowing that every move she made and every word that passed her lips had to be carefully thought out.

"Alright then, suit yourself," the brunette breezed suddenly with a shrug, breaking the tension as she walked to the sectional. She settled down into the center of it and crossed her legs, adding, "Though you look like you could use one."

Buffy stiffened.

Cecily took a sip, then swallowed and soothed, "That was only a joke. What's the matter, Buffy?" She relaxed further into the cushions and blinked long, innocent looking lashes. "You seem tense."

 _Gee, do I?_

Her caution tempered and her temper flaring, Buffy demanded, "What am I doing here?"

It was clear that her outburst had half-startled the older woman, and she knew she needed to be more careful, but she couldn't hold it in anymore. She didn't want to be in Cecily's house any longer than was one hundred and ten percent necessary. It had been maybe five minutes already and even that seemed too long. She didn't hate the other woman, no, but she certainly didn't trust her, and every second she spent dodging seemingly innocent questions about drinks and being tense was another second longer for her to risk letting something slip.

"Straight to business it is, then," Cecily said softly, dropping her gaze down into the clear liquid she was holding. Placing the pad of her index finger on the rim, she began swirling it around and when she spoke, her words seemed to be carefully selected. "Will's told you what happened between us, I know. Or…he's told you what he could, anyway. But you've only heard his side of the story." She finished swirling her finger around the rim of her glass and looked up, eyes solemn and steady. "I'd like the chance to tell you mine."

Buffy felt her body language completely change from sheer shock.

Letting go of her purse strap for the first time since entering the house, she let both of her hands fall limply to her sides and her eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

Cecily chuckled, a quiet, sincere sound as she sipped from her drink and nodded.

"You seem surprised," she mused upon swallowing, lowering the glass down to rest on her leg again. A beat passed. Then she tipped her head to the side. "Did you think it would be something worse?"

She asked the question like it was perhaps the first time the thought had ever occurred to her, and the answer was so obviously _yes_ that Buffy didn't even bother to respond.

She didn't need to anyway, it seemed, because Cecily just nodded. Smiled almost sadly. Then she leaned forward and placed her drink on the edge of the coffee table, straightening her back and folding her hands in her lap. "You'll come to find out, I hope, that I'm not nearly as nefarious as I seem."

Something about that statement made the muscles in Buffy's chest tighten and pinch, and she worried for just a second that it might have been the truth behind it.

Pushing that traitorous thought out of her head as quickly as it had come, she rocked back on her heels, folded her arms tightly in front of her chest and waited.

She could listen for five minutes.

What harm could five minutes do?

"I was your age when I first met Will," Cecily began slowly, her eyes focused on the glass in front of her. "He was a little older than I was, and so...different from anyone else I'd known. Different from what I was used to, the boys I'd grown up with. He was so handsome, and something in him seemed dangerous and exciting. I only discovered how very smart he was after we'd begun seeing one another," she added on a small, wistful laugh. Looked up and added pointedly, "It's very easy to be taken in by all of that, you know, and I was taken in by him. He was brilliant and charismatic and…rebellious. Some might say troubled. He..." she trailed off, her eyes narrowing as she caught and read the expression on Buffy's face. Then, sounding equal parts surprised and impressed, she hedged, "He told you?"

"Yeah," Buffy admitted, knowing her face had already given it away.

It had taken him a while, but yes, he had.

"Did he tell you I loved him?" Cecily asked now, eyebrows raised. The expression that flashed across Buffy's features must have given the answer away again, because the older woman simply nodded and got to her feet, sighing, "I didn't think so. That bit of the story doesn't quite fit his characterization of me, I'm sure." The brunette picked up her drink and finished the last sip, then began crossing the room. Her next question seemed more impulsive than her others had. "Do you know what it's like, Buffy? How painful and embittering it is to love someone who doesn't love you back?" She reached the bar cart and lifted the shaker, pouring herself a fresh drink and murmuring, "Though I suppose it isn't any worse than loving someone you know you can never be with."

Those words made Buffy's blood run cold.

It felt like the low blow it probably was. It felt like she was being baited. And unfortunately, it was kind of working. For the first time, the first _real_ time, since she'd pulled up in the cab that evening, she wanted to run.

She didn't.

Instead she stood her ground, pokerfaced. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes," Cecily countered instantly, picking up her glass, "you do. But even that may be beside the point now. Besides, I find it sweet...how blindly loyal you are to him. Tell me," she mused, angling her body toward Buffy's like the thought had just occurred to her. "Do you believe everything Will tells you?"

It was maybe the only question she'd asked yet that didn't feel like a trick.

"He's ever given me a reason not to," Buffy said defiantly, wondering just a little even as she did if it was the honest to God truth or not.

"He will," the brunette promised in return, her voice casual and earnest.

Which made the implication of the statement that much worse.

"Stop it," Buffy snapped, unable to stop herself as heat bloomed, sudden and fierce, deep in her gut.

Clearly surprised by the outburst, or the sudden force behind it, the pretty brunette just stared at her and blinked a few times.

"Stop what? Buffy, I'm trying to _help_ you. I was going to wait to have this conversation, but after I heard about the weekend the two of you spent together I thought sooner would be better." Looking almost confused, thin brows drawn together, she lowered her voice and asked, "Do you truly believe a man capable of doing what he did to me would never be dishonest to you?"

Buffy had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping again at that. All of _that_. The insinuation of Spike's dishonesty, the notion that his wife was trying to give her relationship advice. It was all ten tons of crazy, and the longer Buffy stood there listening to it the more she started to believe that she might not actually know what to believe, and that didn't bear thinking about.

"I think you'd say anything to keep him miserable," she replied calmly, being careful now not to raise her voice.

The older woman shifted backward as though she'd been slapped. Suddenly somber once more, she frowned. She was clearly frustrated. "Then you don't understand why I asked you here tonight."

And she was starting to think she really didn't.

Of all the things she'd expected to happen tonight, she honestly hadn't expected this. She'd been on the defensive from the get go, ready for Cecily to go all super sleuth on her. Try and trick her into admitting their guilt. What she hadn't anticipated was that Cecily might go after Spike's integrity. That instead of putting the pressure on Buffy to admit her relationship with him, she might instead try to drive a woman-to-woman wedge between them.

She was so turned around.

"You know what, you're right," Buffy said, shaking her head as she uncrossed her arms and hiked her purse higher onto her shoulder. "I don't."

Buffy turned to leave, almost reaching the alcove leading back into the narrow hallway before the sound of Cecily's quiet, lilting accent stopped her short. She stood in the alcove entrance, listening but not turning back around.

"I don't blame you, you know. I know this isn't your fault. No more than mine, or even his." She sighed then, sounding openly sorry. "We're all just victims of circumstance."

That was too much.

The fragile control Buffy'd been holding onto cracked and crumbled, unable to withstand the sheer unwillingness of this woman to share in equal blame for the situation the three of them were trapped within.

"Of _your_ circumstance, you mean," she corrected, whirling back around. She shook her head, accusing, " _You_ chose this. If you knew what he'd done...if it bothered you _this_ much, why didn't you just leave him twelve years ago?"

Unperturbed, Cecily raised her eyebrows. "I believe you know why."

Buffy raised her own eyebrows, her eyes wide. "Because he'd get to keep his _father's_ company?"

God, the more she actually talked about it out loud the more mind numbingly ridiculous it sounded.

But Cecily was already shaking her head, moving to set her drink down on the edge of the coffee table once more.

"Again, you've oversimplified things. Not that I blame you, of course. This business of marriage and...well, business...it's messy and ugly and not something I expect you to understand." She settled gracefully onto the arm of the cream sectional, hands folded again like she was about to teach a school lesson. "If I divorce Will he gets everything he wants. The company, yes, but also the love and respect of his family. A chance to be with the woman he loves. All of it," she emphasized, "with no repercussions."

And the words shot out, venomous and cold before Buffy could even think to stop them. "You don't think twelve years trapped in a loveless marriage was _repercussion_ enough?"

She regretted them the second they left her lips, and then a moment later regretted them twofold. Once because of the jealousy that colored her voice and left little room for doubt that everything Cecily had alleged was true, and again for the very real flash of hurt she saw in the other woman's eyes.

Momentarily gutted by her own callousness, Buffy froze. Eyes wide, lips parted, glued to the spot and unable to turn away.

Cecily's voice had lost the smugness it had held just moments ago when she spoke again, replaced by something soft and cold. "He can't have everything he wants, Buffy. Not when he's taken so much from me. He has to choose," she continued, lowering her voice and looking away again. "I've been trying to get him to choose for almost twelve years."

At first, the sentiment didn't make sense to Buffy. Then she remembered what Spike had told her about Cecily and her strings of men and her stomach dropped as she understood.

 _The affairs_.

She hadn't even noticed she'd spoken out loud until the other woman sighed.

"Mmm,"Cecily hummed. She turned her eyes to the ceiling and nodded. "I suppose that is what they are, yes. Though I admit I've never considered them that. Does seem the term should only apply in the case of a _real_ marriage, but I imagine a binding legal document is just as good."

A long, drawn out pause hung heavy and thick between the women as they looked at each other, like suddenly neither one of them knew exactly what to say or where to go from here.

Then Buffy slumped, exhausted, and leaned her shoulder into the alcove's wall.

"I don't understand any of this," she murmured, dropping her eyes to the ground and shaking her head. So tired. So confused. "Why keep this up for so long? What is the point of you both being miserable?"

"I'm hardly miserable," Cecily insisted.

Buffy frowned. At this point, she'd almost given up trying to understand what was happening.

"But you said…" she trailed off, gesturing absently toward the bar cart where the other woman had been standing earlier, "with the being in love with someone who doesn't...love you back."

"I said I _loved_ him," the brunette clarified, not sounding callous at all but merely honest. "I don't anymore. Not that way. I'm quite at my leisure, Buffy. I've found romance, of sorts. I make good money. I'm fairly influential. I'm perfectly content to allow things to go on as they have been." When it was painfully clear that Buffy still didn't comprehend what she was saying, Cecily gave her a soft, dejected smile and tipped her head to the side. Explained, "I come from a family where marriages are designed as business arrangements more often than not, and have been privy to a number of marriages who devolve into entirely separate lives just as ours have. I'm not only used to it, I'm perfectly comfortable with it. William, however, isn't built for this…it will destroy him eventually."

That much was definitely true. It was already, _had_ already, taken such a toll on his life. On all his relationships. It had turned him into a bitter workaholic who was petrified of ever letting the image he'd worked so hard to build slip. Made him question everything. And here was his wife, sitting so calmly and talking about knowing this all will eventually destroy him.

Did she really not know it already was?

"And you care?" Buffy asked, more bitterly than she would have liked.

"I don't know why," Cecily replied, openly perplexed.

It was a reaction that sent a fresh wave of heat through Buffy's chest, spreading up her neck and into her cheeks until it all but exploded out of her mouth.

"Gee," she hissed, pulling her shoulder off the alcove wall and taking a step forward. "Let's think about it then. Maybe it's because you know this situation is just as much your fault as it is his? Or maybe it's because you know Spike only did what he did in the first place to help his family?" She was on a roll now, unable to stop even if she'd wanted to. "Or _maybe_ it's just because you know he never meant to hurt you, and that he's been beating himself up over it every day for the last twelve years."

Tirade over, she paused to catch her breath and held Cecily's gaze as steadily as she could, hoping she hadn't just hammered her own personalized nail into the coffin.

"My, my." Those discerning hazel eyes twinkled knowingly. "You really do love him."

 _Shit._

"I have to go." Buffy reached up to grip her purse again, but before she could get even halfway around toward the hallway Cecily's bell-like voice caught her once more.

"I need you to do something for me," she purred.

Her expression, like the tone of her voice, was even. Steady. It wasn't cold or callous sounding at all, still the same smoothness she'd held onto throughout the evening, but it felt like ice trickling down the back of Buffy's shirt anyway. It prickled the skin of her arms over in goose bumps, made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Something was coming.

"What could I possibly do for you?" Buffy asked plaintively, and she might as well have asked _why the hell would I do anything for you?_ for how thoughtful it sounded.

And the request from Cecily was even more earnest than the last. "Push William to make a decision."

Buffy almost laughed.

She sort of wanted to. You know, one of those creepy, I must be losing it, half-hysteric sounding giggles? One that would send a chill down the other woman's spine for good measure.

But she didn't. Maybe couldn't.

Instead, she just stared numbly at the brunette for a moment, no longer feeling intimidated by her but instead feeling downright furious. Enraged. The two of them had had one uber freaky, upside down heartless to heart chat and what, now she thought Buffy was going to be another weapon for her to use against Spike?

She was kidding, right? She had to be.

"No," Buffy said, turning to leave.

"Yes," Cecily countered, standing up.

Buffy turned back around again.

"No," she said, more slowly this time. Ire rising high and hot in her throat, eyes burning. "If you want out of your marriage, you know what options you have. You leave me the hell out of it." She jabbed an impulsive finger at the other woman. "You're the one saying you're totally fine with the way things are as is, and you won't just divorce him because then...everything's all puppies and rainbows which you don't think is fair to you. So why don't you just _claim_ he violated the prenup and be done with it?"

She emphasized the word purposefully, possibly a little too purposefully, but she was just so barely hanging on to her self-control that she thought it better to over play her hand now than to be playing forty-two card pickup later.

If Cecily noticed, or if she knew why, she didn't say anything. Though she did seem to stop and pause long enough to consider what Buffy was saying before finally shaking her head.

"I won't make the decision for him," she said softly, thoughtful. Reached up to tuck a stray curl back behind her ear. "Besides, I can't. I don't have any evidence, remember?"

The older woman's eyes did that not so subtle flashing thing again, and Buffy felt cold all over.

"Yeah," she bit out, voice sharp, exhausted by the pretense and clearly more than finished with being careful. "I remember."

Then, "But I could find some."

It was a threat. The most obvious and sincere one Buffy had ever heard. She didn't need to think too hard to understand what that meant, or to understand that Spike had been right all along. His wife did know about them. His wife probably already had proof of their affair. She only wasn't using it because she had something else planned. And Buffy knew, standing there frozen, face to face with the love of her life's estranged wife, that she'd been beaten. Cecily could, and would, take everything from him. Would find a way to make sure he lost all the things he'd worked for, if not the company at the very least.

Unless…unless what?

Feeling defeated and more than drained, Buffy asked, "What do you want from me?"

And Cecily's eyes sparkled like she knew she'd won.

"I just want you to ask him to choose," she reiterated calmly, like she was asking for milk from the store. Her eyes were wide and doe-like once again, long lashes fluttering against flush cheeks. Her expression was a direct contrast to cruelty of the words she was speaking. "Ask him to choose between a chance at a real life with you, or an empty shell of a thing with the company he's worked so hard to build."

Her knees wobbled a little, and Buffy suddenly felt very sick.

Oh, _God_ , it was all so calculated. Quantified. Like the woman had sat down and made some mega list of pros and cons on making Spike's life miserable, and then went and wrote herself a clinical "How To" on the subject. She wanted to run again now. She _really_ wanted to run, but she was stuck. Those too-familiar frustration tears pricked her eyes, making them water as she stood, horrified, praying she wouldn't be sick all over the pretty all-cream room.

"Why?" she managed to choke out, her throat sand paper-y and thick.

Cecily gave her a look like the answer should be obvious. It was a strange expression, and one that admittedly made Buffy's skin crawl. The slightest furrowed brow and a soft, almost concerned frown folding the corners of her pink lips down on the edges as she said simply, "Because, Buffy, he has to lose _something_. I'm simply letting him decide which."

The real kicker? She sounded like she genuinely felt it was a fair thing to do. A trade of some sort maybe, or worse, like she was being benevolent to him. Letting him choose which piece of his life he'd have to let go of rather than simply taking one away by default. _Choose_.

Like there was any kind of decent choice to be made here at all?

"This is cruel," Buffy whispered

Because it was. To all of them.

"Maybe," the brunette conceded with an earnest nod. "Although, I would think you'd be relieved to ask him to choose. It has to have weighed heavily on your mind, especially after seeing everything he's done and all the things he's sacrificed for the company. His father." She plucked her unfinished drink off the coffee table and lifted it to her lips, paused, shot Buffy a deeply inquisitive look. "Or…is that it?" She lowered the drink again and studied the younger girl's face, eyes wide. "Are you afraid of what his choice might be?"

The weight of that question, and the truthful response, slammed into Buffy straight in the center of her chest. It momentarily took her breath away, then sunk down and settled like a stone in the pit of her stomach.

After a silent few seconds, she turned one final time to leave.

Cecily didn't stop her.


	23. Chapter 23

**_-Monday, August 19th. 9:24pm-_**

Twenty-five minutes.

It was the first thing she looked for when she stumbled back into the cab, slamming the door shut behind her, pushing her hair out of her eyes. The meter had been running for an extra twenty-five minutes. It shocked her, but only because for how shaken she felt. It should have taken so much more time than that, than twenty-five minutes, for things to have gotten so totally out of her control. For everything to slip through her fingers.

She'd gone there to attempt to smooth things over and all she'd ended up doing was making things that much worse.

And she was soaked.

Sometime between when she'd entered Cecily's house and when she'd run stumbling out it had started pouring down rain again, which was perfect. A fitting end to the evening for sure.

Except it wasn't the end of the evening, was it? Not by a long shot.

Leaning back in the seat, Buffy sighed and gathered her wet hair in one hand. Started ringing it out with shaking hands and mumbled up to the cab driver the right address to take her to. He nodded and asked her if she was feeling alright.

 _Do I look alright?_ "I'm fine." She forced a smile onto her face she hoped looked reassuring, wondering a little bit why she was even bothering. He turned back around and shifted the cab into Drive, telling her a little off-handedly as he did how much the ride total would be adding in the extra time they'd been stopped.

All told, she'd end up spending close to sixty bucks on cab fare alone tonight, but that was the last thing on her mind.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Buffy refused to look back out the window. Instead, she focused on peeling off her soaked blazer and folding it carefully so it wouldn't wrinkle. On checking to make sure her purse had been zipped when she'd mad dashed out into the rain. God, it was a miracle she hadn't slipped on those limestone steps and twisted her ankle in the process.

Now _that_ would have been the perfect way to end things. Cecily probably would have iced it for her and then insisted on driving her to the hospital herself or something equally as bizzarro, which would have just been _the_ cherry on top of the freak show sundae.

She was still having a little trouble understanding what had just happened. Even thinking about it now as she stared out the rain-pelted windshield, she almost felt like it hadn't happened at all. Or maybe like she'd been standing on the outside looking in? Her brain either couldn't or wouldn't fully digest the information it had buzzing around inside of it.

Sure, she knew what Cecily had said…she could even kind of understand where the other woman was coming from if she put her own emotions on hold for a split second. She didn't agree with it…would never be able to think of it as being "right", but she could understand the _why_ of things.

What she was really having trouble with was the _how_.

How someone, anyone, could do what Cecily was insinuating she would do….to anyone really, let alone someone they claimed to have loved once. That was where the disconnect was happening. If Cecily had been trying to make Buffy feel sorry for her, then she'd succeeded…but only halfway. Sure, what Spike had done to her was awful, no one was denying that. Not even _Spike_ was denying that. But Cecily was the one who'd chosen to remain married to him out of spite, wasn't she? The one who was so hell bent on seeking her own idea of justice that she was willing to place Buffy in the middle of a twelve year feud she really had nothing to do with.

If she wanted good old fashioned sympathy from Buffy, she was never going to get it.

She felt things for the other woman, lots of things, but sympathy wasn't currently one of them. She felt anger mostly, though there were definite hints of sadness and desperation there too. Not just for herself, or for Spike, but for all three of them. For his family, too. No matter which way she sliced it in her head there just wasn't a winning scenario for any of them. Nobody came out unscathed. Everyone would lose something, just as Cecily had said.

What it all really boiled down to, she guessed, was that his wife had essentially given them an ultimatum. Buffy had to get Spike to decide what to give up or Cecily would decide for him.

It was actually pretty simple when she thought about it like that.

Groaning, Buffy leaned forward and dropped her head into her hands. Rubbed her temples with her thumbs. Tried to figure out what she was going to tell Spike.

Sitting up straight again, she stared out the window for a long, quiet minute and watched the rain soaked street signs, the traffic lights go by in a blur of green and red. Then she slumped back against the cab's seat, reached over and grabbed her purse.

She had five text messages waiting for her, three from Dawn and two from Spike.

All three of the missed calls were from Spike, too.

Buffy's stomach tightened a little at the sight of his name, her heart sinking, but she forced herself to open the two waiting messages from him anyway.

One was dated just after she'd ignored his first call, and the second from just after he'd called the second two times.

 **Spike. 8/19, 8:55pm.** _Please answer the phone._

 **Spike. 8/19, 9:09pm.** _Will you at least come over tonight?_

Chewing the inside of her cheek, she read them both again. Put her thumb over his name and let it hover over his phone number. Then at the last minute she changed her mind, opting to put them aside instead and open the messages from her sister, deal with her first.

 **Dawn. 8/19, 8:59pm.** _Got it. Good luck._

 **Dawn. 8/19, 9:15pm**. _I mean, I'm assuming you were just kidding about the search and rescue thing…._

And the last one, sent probably just as Buffy was fleeing the house.

 **Dawn. 8/19, 9:23pm**. _Are you alive?_

She actually felt the corner of her mouth curve up a little as she read that, then quickly dialed her sister's number and pressed the phone to her ear.

It only rang once.

"Oh my _God_ , I was about point two seconds away from calling the National Guard," Dawn exhaled, sounding a little bit like she might have been holding her breath for the last thirty minutes.

"I probably could've used the backup," Buffy admitted quietly, shivering a little. She plucked at the sleeves of the damp sleeves of her blouse, grimacing when the silky fabric snapped back and clung to her skin again.

On the other line, her sister's voice was quiet, too. "That bad?"

The question almost made her laugh. She didn't though, the growing knots in her gut putting too much pressure on her insides to manage even a small chuckle.

"It feels a little like I got hit by a truck," she said instead, pressing her folded hands into her stomach. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat.

There was a long pause on the line before Dawn spoke again.

"You're…talking figuratively, right?"

Buffy opened her eyes and sighed, "Yes, Dawn."

But honestly being hit by an actual bus might have been preferable.

"But it was bad?" Dawn asked again, the distant sounds of the television she had on in the background behind her.

She nodded even though Dawn couldn't see her, briefly meeting the cab driver's eyes in the rearview mirror before looking away and muttering, "An ocean of bad."

Her little sister made a low, appreciative whistling sound. She knew Buffy hadn't been expecting things to be smooth sailing with Cecily, but she'd been trying to play positive on the phone when she'd talked to her earlier.

"Were you at least kind of prepared for it?" she asked after another quiet moment, like maybe she was trying to stay positive still. "I mean, didn't Spike warn you what might happen?"

 _Which only ended up making things worse._

"Let's put it this way," Buffy said, turning her attention out the window, the passing buildings and traffic lights. Lightning flashed across the sky. "I was expecting the worst and it was worse than I expected."

Thunder rolled, loud and close.

"God, Buffy, I'm sorry," Dawn murmured, and now the background sounds of the TV stopped. A beat passed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She didn't. Not really. But she was going to have to talk about it eventually, and if she didn't talk about it now with her sister then the first time she'd ever talk about it would be with Spike, and frankly...she felt like she could use the practice. Besides, it could really only help to try and work through some of her jumbled thoughts before they were made even more jumbled by being in the same room as Spike.

So she started to talk. Told Dawn everything that had happened. And the more she talked, the more she heard herself explaining out loud what had happened, the more she started to understand it. Both what had happened and how she felt about it. What her options were for dealing with it, which admittedly, weren't many.

And none of them were good.

By the time she finished her story, she felt like the surreal quality that had wrapped itself around her and the evening as a whole had dissipated, leaving behind a bright, cold reality to contend with.

"She's evil," Dawn said.

"No, she's just…" Buffy trailed off and shivered again, wrapping her free arm tighter around her waist as she searched for the word. Looking out the window and recognizing the neighborhood, she settled on, "Scorned."

Her sister scoffed. "And you know what they say about scorned women."

For once, the proverbial "they" were right.

The next question Dawn asked was an expected one. "What are you gonna tell Spike?"

Buffy took a deep breath through her nose and exhaled through her lips, letting them form an "O" as she did. _Great question_.

"I don't know," she answered honestly, feeling funny. Twisted up. All the time in the cab, all the time spent talking through things with Dawn, and still she didn't know what she was going to tell Spike. She was going to tell him the truth, obviously, it was just...how _much_ of the truth she was going to tell him that was questionable.

"Are you gonna do what Cecily asked?" Dawn pressed.

"I don't know," Buffy answered again, the response just as truthful this time as before but sounding more tired now. A little more on edge.

In all the scenarios she'd played through in her head, only one of them had actually included her doing what Cecily had asked her to do, and even in her own whitewashed imagination things hadn't gone over so well for her there. She wasn't in any hurry to play through the more-than-likely far worse real life version. She could find a way around it, couldn't she? There had to be at least one way.

All she needed was one.

"Buffy, you have to," Dawn insisted, bringing the ice cold reality of the situation crashing back down around Buffy's shoulders.

"I don't have to," Buffy shot back, her voice matching her sister's. Frowning into the receiver like the other girl had lost her mind. She shook her head. "I mean, I can't…what she wants me to do, Dawn, it's insane. It's not _possible_."

"It's totally possible, Buffy," the other girl fired back, impatient. "You just don't want to do it."

Buffy felt her fingers tighten around her cellphone as her temper flared.

Heat spreading through her cheeks, she snapped, "Of course I don't _want_ to do it. God, would you?"

But she already knew what Dawn was trying to say.

"No," her sister sighed, sounding like she knew herself that Buffy already knew what she was saying. "I mean…you don't want to do it for reasons other than the obvious _I don't want to do it_ reasons."

Buffy bristled again, her stomach tensing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

But she already knew what it meant.

And Dawn wasn't about to let her get away with pretending that she didn't.

" _Are_ you afraid of what his answer might be?"

The words were a sucker punch, hitting Buffy straight between the eyes with so much force she felt her head actually snap backward. The question she'd been avoiding all night. She was wondering now why she even told her little sister that Cecily had posed it because she'd known it would come back to gnash its big ugly teeth right in her face.

The knots in her stomach twisted tighter.

"That is _so_ not the point here," she stammered, getting the words out with all the force of a whisper. "The point is, I can't ask him to choose between a relationship he's had for less than three months and a career he's built over twelve years. It'd be like me asking him to choose between me and his family, Dawnie. Everything he's done for the past decade has been for his family. And I…" She paused to wet her dry lips, looking down into her lap. "I can't ask him to choose me."

 _Because he won't._

And Dawn didn't seem to have anything to say to that. Whether she'd successfully managed to convince the younger girl that she wasn't just being horribly selfish, Buffy didn't know. Didn't particularly care either because the cab was turning the corner and traveling slowly down onto Spike's street.

She listened quietly as her sister sighed loudly into the phone and asked her, "Then what are you going to do?"

As the cab pulled up in front of Spike's building and slowed to a stop, Buffy sat very still for a moment. Thinking. Avoiding. Not at all sure what she could say to that. Wondering what she _was_ going to do.

Then she looked out the window, up at the light on in his loft, and said honestly, "I don't know."

 ** _-Monday, August 19th. 9:51pm-_**

Spike opened the door on Buffy's second knock, the expression on his face made up of equal parts irritation and concern. He started to say something immediately, maybe to scold her for not answering his phone calls or for not texting him back, his lips moving to form whatever words he was planning on saying.

And then his eyes went wide.

Dripping little rivulets of rain out of her hair and onto the carpeted hallway floor, she shivered once as the air condition vent kicked on above her. Sniffled once and said, "Hey."

There was a split second pause and then he was reaching out, grabbing her in a flash of movement and muffled British curse words. He tugged her into his condo and slammed the door shut behind her, wrapped his arms around her and held her body against his. She curved into him on instinct, not bothering to fight him at all. Not wanting to. His hands moved up and down her back in frenzied motions, circles, warming her all over and physically rubbing away the chill lingering on her skin.

Buffy felt his lips feathering over the crown of her head and his arms tighten around her as she shivered again, and then relaxed against him. Nuzzled her face into the worn black cotton of his t-shirt and inhaled the scent of smoke and mint, the tangy soapiness of his skin below that. She clung to him, wrapped her arms tight around his waist, and there was a treacherous whisper in her head as she did.

 _Enjoy this while you can._

Buffy ignored it.

"Bloody hell," Spike murmured, his voice a low rumble in her ear. One hand moved up to gently cradle the back of her head, press her closer to him. He was touching her like he was afraid she'd fall apart in his arms if he wasn't careful. "You're soaked through."

She nodded but refused to move, her voice muffled against his chest. "It's raining."

That made him chuckle.

"So I gathered," he said, still rubbing her back. Then he abruptly stopped and turned, threading his fingers through hers and tugging her behind him until they were standing in his living space. He moved her toward the leather sofa and maneuvered her to the edge of it, saying, "Wait here, I'll be right back."

Buffy glanced down at the tufted, chocolate colored leather below her, then back toward Spike. "But…"

"Mmm?" he purred, turning to glance over his shoulder at her.

"I'm all wet," she said, her voice sounding funny, quiet. Small. And it was obvious that Spike didn't have a clue what she was getting at. Sniffling again, she added, "The leather…"

As soon as he realized what she was hinting at, he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Then he was marching toward her and putting both his hands gently on her shoulders, equally as gently pushing her down onto the edge of the sofa.

His voice low and his eyes bright, he asked, "You think I give a damn about the bloody sofa?"

A beat passed between them as she looked up into his face. She wasn't sure why she felt so anxious about such a small thing, why leaving water marks on his furniture suddenly mattered so much. A coping mechanism, maybe? A way to occupy the jumbled mess in her head and the anxiety in her stomach with something ridiculous and mundane and not at all painful.

Eyes on his, she swallowed and said, "No." Like she wasn't one hundred percent sure.

Spike hooked a finger underneath her chin and dropped a quick kiss on her mouth.

"No," he agreed against her lips, then stood again and turned back toward the spiral staircase. "Stay put."

She did as he'd asked, mostly because she didn't think getting into an argument over it would be beneficial for either of them right now, though she made sure to sit as still and as close to the edge as possible. Watching him quietly as he ascended the metal stairs, taking them two at a time and emerging at the top of the loft, she saw him disappear into the darkness. He reappeared again less than a minute later, dry clothes in one hand and what looked like the charcoal colored throw from the bottom of his bed in the other.

Buffy stood up again when he started back down the stairs.

Spike frowned at her, looked like he was about to tell her to sit again, but closed his mouth like he'd thought better of it. He handed her the bundle of fresh clothes. It was comprised of a threadbare Sex Pistols t-shirt she recognized and a pair of black sweat pants she didn't. They looked soft.

She wondered dimly if he'd let her keep them.

"Thanks," she murmured, taking them from him and tucking them against her chest.

"Of course," he murmured back, still looking at her like he was afraid she might crumble to dust any minute. He lifted his hand to brush some damp hair back from her face, then rubbed his thumb underneath her eye to catch a drop of rain there. "You want some tea?"

Bizarrely enough, it was the first time he'd ever offered that particular beverage to her. It struck her as odd, but the gesture itself did its share to warm her anyway.

Still, she shook her head and said, "I'm okay."

But her body chose that exact moment to shiver again.

Spike frowned, his hand still warm against her cheek.

"You're freezing, sweetheart." He tilted his head to the side, troubled eyes scanning her face. "I don't want you gettin' sickly on me."

And again, Buffy found herself oddly moved by the abject sincerity in his voice and the softness in his expression. Moved more than she could remember ever being before, though she was completely positive he'd been this tender with her before tonight. Why did it seem so much more…poignant now? Why did it suddenly hurt so much?

Eyes stinging, she tried to look away from him but couldn't, her face held steady by his hand.

"I'll be fine after I change," she promised stiffly.

He arched a brow. "Would you drink tea if I made it?"

Caught, Buffy pressed her lips together and pushed them to the side. Looked down.

"As I thought." Spike leaned forward and kissed her forehead before turning toward the kitchen. "Now get the hell out of those wet clothes and sit down, will you? Makin' me nervous."

She didn't say anything back to that, even though that same tiny voice in her head was whispering _for good reason_.

Buffy was surprised at how numb she felt as she watched him enter his kitchenette and turn, open up his pantry door and pull out two bags of her favorite herbal blend. He stopped at another cabinet down a ways to grab down a bottle of honey and what she assumed was a small container of sugar, then to another drawer to pull out a silver table spoon, then on down to the stovetop where his kettle sat, largely unused.

He turned his back on her.

Satisfied that he didn't seem to be fretting over her anymore, she turned to set the change of clothes on the sofa cushion and quickly unzipped her pants, peeling the damp fabric off one leg at a time and hurriedly stepping into the pants he'd given her. They were too big, obviously, but with drawstring tied as tight as it would go, she knew they at least wouldn't fall off all together. She folded her dress pants and set them on the ground, then turned to undoing the buttons on her blouse.

She caught sight of Spike out of the corner of her eye.

He was turned facing her now, standing at the sink, his attention down on filling the silver kettle in front of him. Or at least he wanted her to think that's where his attention was.

His eyes kept darting toward her.

Every half second or so, his gaze found its way to her again. Like he thought if he looked away for too long he'd look back and she'd have vanished. It made her chest ache, how attentive he was being. How worried she knew he was. Whether it was worry over what she was about to tell him or worry over her more generally didn't seem to matter that much to Buffy. Something about it touched her on a near-cellular level, the chilled skin of her shoulders tingling as his gaze landed on her again and she peeled the blouse off. Picked up the concert "T" in its place.

"I'm really okay," she told him softly, catching his eye and slipping the soft t-shirt over her head. "You don't have to keep checking on me."

He tried to look like she didn't know what she was talking about.

"I wasn't," Spike insisted just a little too casually, reaching up and flipping off the tap. He turned to wipe the bottom of the kettle off before setting it down on the stovetop.

"I saw you watching me," she told him as he turned back around to face her again.

Caught, he attempted to cover by quirking a brow and asking, "So it's a crime to watch the woman I love undress now, is it?"

Buffy answered him with a flat look.

He dropped the arched brow.

"Alright, fine, I was. And you're wrong," he added, reaching up into yet another cabinet and pulling down two large black mugs, looking back at her over his shoulder. "I do."

He said it with such authority that she actually snapped her mouth shut, and she realized that this was his way of dealing with things. Preparing himself for what she was about to tell him. It gave him a sense of control, being able to take care of her. There was the niggling thought, too, that he was probably already blaming himself for whatever he imagined had happened at Cecily's house. He hadn't asked her about it yet, which she was only realizing now. Hadn't mentioned it even once.

Maybe he didn't want to know.

Her throat felt tight again as she swallowed and said, "Okay."

"Okay," he echoed, resting his hands on the countertop edge and nodding. "Now please, will you sit down before you fall down?"

She was happy to sit now that she was warm and dry. She did, sinking back onto the cushion, lifting her feet up and tucking her knees into her chest. She rested her chin on her knee and watched him finish up the tea, picking up the steaming mugs and bringing them into the living room with him. Carefully handing down her mug and holding onto one for himself, he settled down onto the sofa beside her.

They sat and looked at each other for a very long moment, the weight of all the words unspoken hanging thick and heavy in the air between them. She pictured it like a red velvet curtain, the kind they used to hang in old theatres. The kind that could kill people if it ever fell.

Holding his tea but not drinking it, his eyes still on her, Spike asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Buffy sighed.

"No," she said honestly, slumping her shoulder into the sofa's back cushion. "But I think we have to."

He rolled his shoulders back and took a deep, bracing breath. Nodded. "Right, then." He shifted forward and set his untouched tea down on the coffee table, sat back and propped his elbow on the sofa back. "What happened?"

"We talked," Buffy began with a small shrug of her shoulders. "Or…she talked and I listened, I guess. She said she just wanted a chance to tell me her side of the story."

She chanced a quick look at Spike's face and found him gazing at her evenly. He didn't look surprised, but he also didn't look like he believed that either. Not that he didn't believe that's what his wife had said, just that he didn't quite trust it was honestly what she'd wanted. The only real indication Buffy had that he was already having trouble listening to what Cecily'd had to say was the tight fist his hand was now curled into.

"I see," he said, voice low. Another inhale. "And what did she tell you?"

That was the big question, wasn't it? What had Cecily told her? What had she told her and what had she been trying to accomplish by telling her what she had. They were two different questions, and yet they were so completely linked in her head that she struggled for a minute trying to figure out how to separate them.

She decided to address the first question because it didn't make her stomach knots tighten quite as badly.

"Nothing I didn't already know," Buffy answered truthfully, looking down into the amber colored liquid in her mug.

There was a good five second pause before Spike said, "You're gonna have to give me a bit more'n that."

She looked up at him again to find him staring at her, looking unsatisfied. His brows were drawn together, his mouth bent down in a frown. It was his eyes, though, that were the hardest for her. Still so concerned, soft with worry and sparkling just a little with frustration. He was waiting for her to get to the point, and she was in zero hurry at all to get pointy.

Buffy looked away again.

Why she was having such a hard time making eye contact with him, she didn't know. Or she did know and she just didn't want to contemplate it too much.

 _Or at all._

"She told me about when you met," she began slowly, staring at the frayed grey material of his sweat pants. Choosing her words carefully. "About...how you were kind of wild back then, which I already knew. And she told me you never loved her, which again, I already knew." She paused to chew on her cheek for a moment before meeting his gaze and continuing, "She told me that she loved you. When you got married…she loved you." She paused once more and shook her head, rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. "And honestly the more I think about it I'm pretty sure I knew that, too."

Because she did know. Had known. Of course Cecily had loved him back then, of _course_ she had. Why had it seemed like such a revelation to her earlier? It was the only thing that made sense. Why else would she have agreed to marry Spike so soon after meeting him? Why else would she have insisted on making him so miserable for so long?

And God, how could she _not_ have loved him?

Spike for his part still didn't look surprised, though now his expression wasn't so strained, the muscle in his jaw no longer tight.

"I broke her heart," he said quietly, nodding. The whiteness in his knuckles lessened as his hand relaxed. "I know I did."

Buffy leaned forward and set her mug down on the table. "And she knows you're still killing yourself over it."

Spike arched a semi-surprised brow at that.

"Well, that oughtta make her happy at least," he chuckled humorlessly, the very beginnings of a smile curving the side of his mouth.

Buffy felt her eyes begin to burn. "Not happy enough."

The beginnings of a smile disappeared.

He swallowed.

"What else?" Spike asked, though now he sounded a little less like he really wanted to know.

And Buffy felt even less like she really wanted to tell him, because she'd reached the extent of everything the other woman had told her fact-wise. Super face value-wise. Now all she had left to tell him was the rest of it. The hard parts. The truly horrifying parts. What Cecily had _meant_ by everything she'd said, what she'd been _implying._

 _What she'd threatened._

"She told me I can't trust you," she admitted softly, turning her eyes down to the hand he had resting on her knee. Up until now he'd been rubbing his thumb back and forth against the faded material of the sweat pants. He stopped now, and when he didn't say anything Buffy looked up again. His expression wasn't impassive anymore, but pained. Stricken with the closest thing to genuine surprise she'd seen all night, like he'd finally heard something he hadn't been expecting.  
His eyes were on fire.

"I told her you'd never given me a reason not to," Buffy told him in a rush, unsure why she felt like that would make the hurt flashing across his face go away.

It didn't.

"So you lied." He pulled his hand off her knee.

She reached for him instinctively, grabbing hold of his hand and keeping it held tight in hers, leaning forward a little bit because it felt like the thing to do. And she was able to hold his gaze without flinching this time, without feeling the urge to look away.

Maybe because she believed what she was saying.

"You've always been honest with me, Spike," she asserted, meaning it. Squeezed his hand and settled it down on her leg again. "Even if it's taken you a little while to do it."

"That's puttin' it mildly," he self-deprecated, looking away. Shamed.

But his fingers curled back around her knee.

"I trust you," she insisted, voice soft. She covered his hand with hers and looked down, watching as he entwined her fingers with his longer ones. And then, because it was true, "If there's anyone here I don't trust, it's your wife."

Spike had never lied to her. He'd kept things to himself at times, true, but he'd always come around. He'd always come clean with her eventually.

As far as she knew, Cecily had never _lied_ to Buffy either. Not directly. But what she had done…that was almost worse.

Twisting the truth, twisting Spike's motivations, carefully selecting her each and every word for maximum manipulation and maximum impact. She was conniving and she was indifferent, which was a potentially devastating combination. And she was willing to lay waste to anyone and everything she needed to in order to get what she wanted in the end, and what she wanted was for Spike to lose. And Buffy honestly believed that she no longer cared what he lost, either. So long as he lost _something_ he loved, she would finally feel vindicated.

"Cecily was hurt, and now she's bitter," Buffy continued, looking over to her right, scanning the long book shelves and the multi-colored spines of the books sitting there. Adding almost as an afterthought, "And hurt, bitter people do insane things sometimes."

Spike snorted a quick burst of air through his nose and looked away, muttering, "You forgot cold and calculating."

Buffy nodded.

That was true, too.

"I think her plan was to manipulate me by telling her side of the story," she said, still quiet. Thoughtful. Turning the other woman's word over in her head again. "It was obvious she was trying to do _something_." She met Spike's waiting gaze, the familiar pin-pricking starting behind her eyes again. "It was obvious she wanted something from me, it just took me a while to figure out what."

He could see her getting visibly upset, which made his shoulders tense and tighten. Bracing for impact even as he reached up and cradled her face in one strong hand, trying to soothe her, saying, "I did warn you."

The warmth of his hand flooded her eyes with bright, hot tears.

 _Oh, God._

She couldn't tell him, not while he was touching her. She couldn't tell him and she _had_ to tell him, so she couldn't be near him. Couldn't let him touch her.

But all she wanted was for him to keep touching her.

So she pulled his hand away from her face and got up, moving on unsteady legs until she was standing on the other side of the room. Her back to the book shelves, eyes locked with his, she tried to ignore the look of bewildered hurt on his face. Looked away, started pacing as she felt more than saw him get up from the sofa, too. Could see him approaching her out of the corner of her eye.

"I think she knew that you'd warned me…or she anticipated it or something, because-no, don't." She held her hand out to him, palm up, warding him away. "Please," she added desperately, shaking her head. "I have to get this out."

Spike stared at her for a moment, unsure what to do. Or unsure if he wanted to listen to her. But then he took a step back and gave her a nod.

"Go on," he said quietly.

So she did.

"She knew I wasn't listening to her. Could see that what she was doing wasn't working, that I wasn't gonna do what she wanted. Not on my own, anyway." She shook her head again, the words half under her breath, "I love you too much."

"And she's found a way to use even that against me," Spike whispered, drawing her eyes back toward him once more.

He was staring at her again like he had been earlier when she'd first arrived. Worried, just a little bit irritated, and in love with her. He looked now like he was afraid to reach for her, and what he'd just said...he was right. He was so totally right that for a moment it took her breath away.

Cecily had found a way to use her as a weapon after all.

Because she _did_ know now how much Buffy loved Spike, and how much Spike loved her. She knew losing Buffy, no matter which way it went down, would cause maximum damage without upsetting the current balance of things at Pratt. God, she probably hadn't even really _wanted_ Buffy to ask Spike to choose. She'd wanted her to be above that. To love him too much to ever ask him to make a decision like that. Maybe she'd expected her to never mention the ultimatum to him at all. Maybe she'd expected her just to disappear. To believe she was doing the right thing for him and his family and leave Boston without a word, effectively making the decision for him. Breaking his heart in the process.

She'd been thinking about doing exactly that.

Buffy hadn't wanted to admit it to herself, not yet, but it had been there in the back of her mind. Since she'd stumbled her way out of Cecily's house and into the cab, the niggle had been there. Had grown more persistent as she'd talked on the phone with Dawn. Had remained a steady, pulsing presence at the base of her skull the entire time she'd been inside Spike's condo.

Well, she wasn't going to do that. She wasn't going to disappear and she wasn't going to break Spike's heart, and dammit, she wasn't going to let Cecily win by default. This was Spike's decision to make, and Buffy was going to give him the opportunity to make it.

No matter what that meant for her.

"Cecily has proof of our relationship but she's holding onto it," she told him in a rush, her eyes wide, frantically searching his face as the words tumbled out. Jumbled. Hurried. "Something about...not forcing your hand, I think. She told me to ask you to make the decision. She said you have to lose something." She paused to pull in a ragged breath, then whispered, "And she wants you to have to choose."

Spike stared at her for a minute through narrowed eyes, his hands braced on his hips and brow deeply furrowed. A little like he couldn't possibly have heard her right. He didn't say anything, just kept very quiet and very still. Waiting for her to say something else, maybe.

When she didn't, just stood there in front of him on legs that didn't feel like they belonged to her, he blinked a few times. Widened his eyes.

"Choose," he echoed slowly, realization dawning across his features. "Between you and…"

Buffy nodded.

There was only a half pause before he reached down, picked up a paperback book off the coffee table and hurled it in the direction of the staircase with a roar. Buffy flinched. The worn-down spine hit the rail with a hollow clink and fell to the floor, face up.

 _Wuthering Heights_.

He'd gotten the wrong Bronte sister again.

"Jesus Christ," he snarled, snapping Buffy's gaze to him as he reached up to run a hand through his hair. "How can she _do_ this?"

She wasn't sure whether he meant how, as in literally, or how as in how could someone be capable of doing something like this, so she gave the only honest answer she could.

"I don't know, but she is."

Spike was the one doing the pacing now, full on caged jungle cat, short strides back and forth in front of the table. Muttering curse words, things she could barely make out under his breath.

His eyes down on the ground, jaw muscle tight, he muttered, "This is a new low, even for her."

Buffy watched him continue to pace and didn't say anything, didn't move. Barely breathed. Feeling stuck, and feeling helpless. Feeling like she already knew exactly how all of this was going to play out and wondering why it still managed to hurt so much. Shouldn't being prepared for bad news somehow make it sting less? She was glad she'd told him, she realized. Glad she'd given him the opportunity to weigh his decision and not just disappeared on him, fled in the middle of the night like Jane had done to Rochester.

But being glad she'd made the right choice didn't lessen the magnitude of the choice she'd just placed on his shoulders, or the inevitability of the pain it would bring with it.

She ached for what she knew was coming next, and she ached for Spike on top of everything else. For him almost more than she did for herself, because it was his life that was being toyed with. His life that had become a life sized version of Chess. She hurt for him, for what he was going to have to do. For what he was going to have to lose either way.

She'd known this was coming, had always known, but now that it was here...The sheer weight of it all, of how incredibly _unfair_ it was, crashed into her all at once. And unable to find any other possible way of explaining to him how she felt, Buffy settled for an apology.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

That caught Spike's attention.

Pausing abruptly, he turned toward her.

"Sorry," he echoed. Frowned, narrowed his eyes. "What the bloody hell are you sorry for?"

She didn't even know where to start.

"I shouldn't have gone over there tonight." She looked away, reaching her hands up to push strands of damp hair out of her face, tangling them at the crown of her head. "I shouldn't have even gotten in the car with her this morning. If I hadn't, she-"

"Would've found another way to get what she wanted from you," Spike finished for her, stepping all the way into her personal space again so she didn't have any choice but to look at him. Coaxing her hands gently out of her hair, he held them in his, let his eyes search hers. He whispered her name like he was saying it for the very first time, then told her, "This isn't your fault."

Buffy didn't know how much she needed to hear him say that until he did.

Still, they were so far from out of the woods. They were still pretty much smack dab in the middle of the woods. And with no clear timeline on when and if and how Cecily was going to pull the trigger on her ultimatum...

There wasn't time to feel relieved.

"You have to decide what to do about this before Cecily decides for you," she reminded him, even though she didn't want to.

"Okay," Spike agreed, nodding. Then again, like he'd figured something out. "Okay." He lifted her hands to his lips and brushed a kiss over her knuckles, then let go and moved back to the kitchen counter and snapped up his cell phone. Talking more to himself than to her. "I need to call Lilah, figure out what our options are."

And this was the part she'd been dreading.

Buffy sighed and turned to face the kitchenette, wrapping her arms around her waist. Holding the knots there and trying to force them back down. He already had the phone to his ear by the time she told him, "We already know what our options are."

He shot her a sidelong look like she'd suddenly sprouted a second head.

"I'm not just gonna hand her everything without a fight," he said, voice flat. Matter of fact.

"I didn't say you were," Buffy said back, voice just as flat.

Spike lowered the phone and hung up.

"Well," he said slowly, like he was talking to a child. He raised an eyebrow. "That's the only way this goes down unless I call Lilah and see if we can figure something out."

"Like what?" Buffy pressed, her voice eerily calm. Playing her very own Devil's advocate, wishing she could will her mouth to just stay shut. "You already know the prenup doesn't have a loophole."

He stared at her, expression darkening as he realized what she was saying. Pursed his lips, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

"What's your suggestion then, pet? We take this whole bloody power grab of hers lyin' down?" He was angry now, his voice rising again as he tossed his phone back down to the counter. "Sit back and watch her strip away everything that Henry and I have worked for without even _trying_ to find out if we could stop it?"

She held her ground and held his gaze. "Or there's the more obvious option."

And for the first time all night, he was the one who looked away first.

"Buffy," he warned.

But she wasn't listening to him. If she listened, if she let him convince her to back down now, she'd never say it. And she had to say it, for her sanity.

For both of them.

"I could leave here, go back to California maybe." She shrugged like she hadn't already thought it through. "Move back home and look for an internship in L.A."

Spike looked back up at her, eyes flashing. "No."

Pushing forward like she hadn't even heard him, she said, "She can't use me against you if I'm not here for her to use."

"I said _no_ ," he practically growled, cutting off the tail end of her thought and shoving himself away from the countertop, his voice as dangerous as it was low.

"Well this isn't just about you," Buffy shouted, her own fragile control snapping under the weight of his.

Spike froze where he stood, looking at her with wide eyes, like he'd only just realized that he wasn't the only one between the two of them who stood to lose something precious. His expression softened, then just as quickly hardened again. He shook his head, the look in his eyes murderous as he strode toward her.

"We're not havin' this discussion," he told her.

"We have to," Buffy argued, catching by the arm as he passed her, heading toward the glass decanter of scotch on the bookshelf. She forced him to look at her, held him there as she asked him, "Why? Why shouldn't I just go back home and find a job there? Why not just cut out the middleman and save Cecily the trouble? We're standing here spending all of our time arguing when we should just be enjoying the time we have left."

Spike reeled back, eyes wide, eyebrows high. "The time we have _left_?"

"Yes," Buffy shouted again, letting go of his arm. Shoving him in the chest with the palm of her hand. "God, Spike, what are we even talking about? We both know exactly how this ends."

As soon as the words were out she wished to God she hadn't said them. Wish to God she could take them and shove them back into her mouth. Anything to wipe the pain off his beautiful face, to ease the hurt in his eyes.

He took a small step away from her.

The distance that opened up might as well have been miles.

Buffy swallowed hard, surprised at the effort it took. Her throat was tight and thick again. Eyes watery. Weepy and pathetic and desperate, she felt like she hardly recognized herself. Standing in front of the man she loved and begging him to understand why it was best if she left. It didn't make sense, and it went against everything that felt natural, and yet it also seemed so perfect. Congruent to the rest of their relationship in a way. The time that she'd been with Spike had been short, but it had changed her. Their situation had changed her. A world that used to be full of blacks and whites was now bright, multi-colored. Vast and varied. She wasn't ready to be finished with it yet.

 _Not yet._

"I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling small. "I didn't...I shouldn't have said that. It wasn't fair." She looked down and inhaled, pressing her hands into her stomach. Looked up again and said, "I just meant...that I love you. So stupid, crazy, insanely much." _And the thought of not being with you every day makes me feel like I'm drowning._ "But I know how hard you've worked to get where you are, and how much you've had to give up to get there. I know how important your career is to you. How important _Pratt_ is."

He met her eyes then, and without any hesitation whatsoever he told her, "It's not more important than you."

Normally, those words might have been enough to quiet the voice in her head, shut down the thoughts that were still needling her. Little pin pricks behind her eyes, over the palms of her hands, the back of her neck. Because she knew he could say that, he could _mean_ that, and it still might not change anything.

Folding her arms protectively over her chest, she reminded him, "We've only been together for two months."

Spike frowned at her and quirked a brow, looking thoroughly undaunted. "And?"

 _Like he didn't already know._

"And," she answered back, matching his tone, "you've been building your career for twelve _years_."

He laughed then, but not like he thought she was funny.

"Christ, Buffy," he muttered, his hands planted on his hips again, eyes narrowed. "It ever occur to you that I spent the last twelve years building my career because I didn't have anything else?"

It had occurred to her in fact. Plenty of times before now.

So she was ready with the answer, "It doesn't matter why you did it, Spike, the point is you did. And whether or not you want to admit it right now, those things mean a lot to you. And they _should_." She softened as she looked at him, reached down to take his hand. "And they'll all be ruined if you decide to let Cecily prove you violated your prenup."

For a moment, he just looked at her like he was thinking about what she was saying and maybe wondering if she was right. Trying to read the expression on her face. No doubt wondering at how much thought she'd already given all of this.

Then he pulled his hand away from hers and took another step back. "You stop thinkin' like that right bloody now."

"What, logically?" Buffy asked, dropping her hand to her side with a smack. Frustrated again.

But Spike was frustrated too, the sidelong look he shot her an exasperated one. His jaw was tight as he stared at her, his eyes blazing, and moved to fill the small space he'd left between them.

"Logic has bugger all to do with this," he said, temper flaring hot, emphasizing the word by raising his eyebrows. "Or don't you see that yet? This, with you...bloody hell, _logic_ doesn't even enter into the equation. It never has." He splayed his hand wide over his heart and dug his nails in. "Love isn't brains, sweetheart. It doesn't have the luxury of always makin' sense."

Buffy frowned.

None of this was making sense.

Confused, and a little exasperated herself, she asked, "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I'd choose you," Spike snapped, the words cracking whip-like in the air between them, almost crackling to life as he spoke them. They both paused then and stared at each other, Buffy's eyes wide and Spike's very steady. And then, like he was fully realizing it for the very first time, he said it again. "God help me, Buffy, I'd choose you."

He didn't even wait for her to respond.

Closing the remaining distance between them and threading his hands up into her hair, he crushed his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss. Possessive, wild, a different kind of desperate than their kiss earlier had been.

Buffy kissed him back.

Just as greedily, with just as much force, pouring every last ounce of tension and anxiety and fear over his decision into his willing mouth. Letting him take it all and replace it with passion and desire and out and out relief.

Which was probably why the next words out of her mouth were a surprise to them both.

"You can't," she gasped, tearing her mouth from his. Her chest was heaving.

Spike's was heaving too as he insisted, "I can."

"You _can't_ ," Buffy said again, her nails digging into his triceps. She shook her head. "I won't ask you to-"

He kissed her again, though this time it was mostly just to silence her. Only pulling away when he was sure he'd kissed her into some semblance of submission, he pressed his forehead against hers.

"You're not askin' me to, luv," he breathed. "She is."

That was another one of those great points she hated when he made, and even though she wanted to argue with him, really wanted to argue with him, she couldn't think of anything to say. Her head was light, the good kind of spinny. For the first time all day she didn't feel like she had to grip onto him just to keep herself standing upright.

And his hands were on her face, warm against her skin. Holding her still. Burning her with a look that was both soft and fierce at once. Because he knew he'd made a good point. He knew he'd drawn the line in the sand and made a distinction that she couldn't argue. Buffy would never, _could_ never, ask him to choose between loving her and the loyalty he felt to his family. Not directly. But she wasn't the one asking Spike to choose, his wife was, and instead of her callous words and cruel push driving a wedge between the two lovers it seemed like maybe it had done the exact opposite.

Buffy thought about it for a minute, thrown.

Was it possible the other woman had actually done them a favor?

The answer, of course, was an emphatic, resounding no. Buffy might not have run from the choice that had been presented to her but that didn't mean she didn't know what was at stake now. Even if Spike were to choose her, even if it were to come down to that, how long could they possibly stay together in the real world? How long could they stay _happy_ together with everything they would both have to let go of? And he was getting ready to possibly leave behind his entire career's worth of work so they could what...date? It wasn't like they'd ever had the marriage discussion. For all she knew, Spike didn't even want to get married again. It might have been a one and done deal for him, and even then, did _she_ want to get married? It wasn't like she had any stellar examples of a long and lasting relationship to look at, either.

Neither of them had any idea what the future held. Neither of them had ever asked.

"I can't let you give everything up for me, Spike," she whispered, tugging at his arms. "You'll hate me."

The curve of a smile quirked his lips again.

"I won't," he promised with a brush of his thumb. "I couldn't."

"You will," Buffy argued, moving her grip from his biceps to his wrists and tugging his hands away from her face. "You'll be fine at first because everyone's always fine at first, but then things will get hard." She turned away from him, started pacing in short strides. "You'll hate your new job, if you can even _find_ another publishing job, and I'll hate that you hate it so I'll start overcompensating by trying out weird stuff in the bedroom...or something else Desperate Housewivey like that." She started ticking off each item on her fingers as she went. "And we'll start fighting over everything, all the time, and you'll get all resent-y and start picking fights and I'll start stress eating and ten years from now we won't even recognize ourselves."

She finished with a flourish, throwing her arms out wide as she turned back around to face him. And, ya know, feeling like she'd made a pretty pointy point herself.

Spike just looked amused.

Arching a brow, he asked, "Really thought this through, haven't you?"

Buffy made a face at him, then looked away and rocked back on her heels, crossing her arms. Suddenly sheepish, she muttered, "It was a long cab ride over here."

"I see," he murmured, voice practically a purr. A beat passed. Then, "Ten years?"

Heat flamed across her cheeks as she whipped her head back around, eyes wide.

He was smiling downright roguishly at her now, his head tilted slightly to the side. Long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Like every cat that's ever eaten a canary, she could almost see the yellow feathers as he gazed at her.

Could almost feel the clothes melting off her body, too.

Buffy swallowed. "Um...a really long cab ride?"

He chuckled one more time, then moved to step right in front of her again. Lowered his voice. "Right. Now, you listen to me very carefully because I'm only goin' to say this once." He wrapped his fingers around her shoulders and squeezed them for emphasis as he said, "I _love_ you. And even if, by some barmy stretch of the imagination, I someday fancied that I might resent you for all this...I will still love you." He paused again with a tilt of his head. A glint in his eye. "And if that happens, you just remind me that all this was my decision in the first place, yank me into the bedroom and shag some sense back into me."

He looked like he liked the idea of that just a little too much. Not that Buffy cared one way or another, too busy trying to figure out what was wrong with his argument so she could poke a hole in it. Because it couldn't just be...that. He couldn't just say he'd choose her and have that be the end of it. For him to know he could be giving up everything and actually be okay with it. No way.

It couldn't be that _easy_.

A sentiment that made Spike laugh out loud when she voiced it to him.

Shifting backward, eyebrows raised, he repeated, "Easy? Bloody hell, pet, this isn't gonna be _easy_ at all." He sighed. "But it's high past time I quit runnin' from things, puttin' off the inevitable. I've been doing it for too long. If we can save the company, we'll save it, I can promise you that. Meant what I said before, I'm not lettin' her have it without a proper fight. But if we can't…" the words trailed off as he thought about it, and he shrugged. "Well, I dunno but we'll manage."

We'll...manage.

Buffy stared up at him for what felt like a long time but wasn't. Stared, completely and totally blindsided, wondering why things seemed to have shifted so suddenly. Because the whole cavalier, things are fine, I'm fine, we'll manage attitude was definitely a new one where Pratt Publishing was concerned.

"Okay," she said after a minute, drawing the word out. "So...who are you and where can I find my boyfriend, because I'd like to talk to _him_ about this."

Spike fixed her with a plaintive look. "Very funny."

"I'm serious," she countered, her brow furrowed. "How are you...why are you being so calm about this right now?"

He looked at her and shrugged again, said very matter-of-factly, "Because things are different now."

Well...she definitely agreed with that. There was no way around the fact that things were different now, but as far as she knew the only real different thing worth mentioning was the fact the Cecily had them stuck between a large, sharp rock and another equally hard and probably pointy thing.

Did he know something she didn't?

"What's different, Spike?" Buffy pressed him, shaking her head. Her arms out wide again. "What's different from a week ago? _Two_ weeks ago? You couldn't just… choose me then. You couldn't even tell your dad the truth on Saturday. So what now? The circumstance is exactly the same. Nothing is different," she insisted, narrowing her eyes. "Nothing's...changed."

But Spike just smiled down at her, tilting his head to the side.

"Mmm, wrong again, pet." He ran his hand back through her hair. "Up until Friday night I didn't know you loved me."

And just like that, a million different things that hadn't made any sense to her at all over the past few days all seemed to become perfectly logical. His behavior Saturday...on the boat, walking the streets, at the pub. He's been way too openly affectionate with her for being so out in the open, especially in front of Henry. And then… his words later that night about being more careful, which had had such a bizarre, temporary ring in them.

It hadn't added up then.

But all of that behavior, when she thought about his reaction to Cecily knowing that morning and the way he reacted to the situation as a whole...the way he was behaving even now. She understood.

Because Buffy was in love with him and he knew it now, and that one fact made all the difference in the world to him. Which was hopelessly romantic in a Byronic sort of way, if not incredibly risky.

And maybe a little bit dumb.

But she felt the magnetic pull toward him anyway and stepped closer, asking, "And that's enough?"

And looking like he knew he had her, he answered, "It is if you're in this with me."

Buffy recognized those words. Those were her words. The same ones she'd spoken to him the night a week ago in her apartment, the aftermath of their lunch at Drusilla's, the fight that had followed.

Buffy stood in front of him now thinking about those words and finding herself giving into them.

She was insane. She had to be. She was insane and a glutton for punishment and so totally probably going to regret this. One way or another. Someday. Somehow. It would come back to bite her in the ass and she would have no one to blame but herself.

But that was some day's problem.

"You know I am," she said, then raised her hand between them to press her fingertips to his lips, stopping him from talking or kissing her or doing anything else as equally distracting. Widened her eyes. "But we can't just leave things like this, we need to talk about what we're gonna do. What it means."

Spike kissed the tips of her fingers and took her wrist, lowered her hand.

"And we will," he promised. "Later." He let go of her hand and turned, marching back in the direction of the kitchen. "Right now, we need to go."

She had the distinct pinching sensation of whiplash as she swiveled her neck toward him.

After all of _that_ he wanted to go somewhere? Somewhere else? Wasn't there supposed to be some grand finale after making a decision like this? It hadn't been a fight exactly, and not that she'd thought they'd hop right into bed or anything, but...well, _going_ hadn't exactly been Buffy's plan for the rest of the evening.

"Go?" She blinked at Spike's back a few times, then turned and glanced out the window of the loft. Yep. Torrential rain, punctuated by the increasingly frequent flash of lightning. She turned back toward him. "Now?"

He was already standing at his coat closet, sliding hangers from left to right as he said, "You'll need a jacket."

So he was serious then.

"Spike," she said, catching the black jogging jacket he tossed at her. "Hold on, where are we going?"

"You mind goin' out in that?" he asked, ignoring her question. Referencing her borrowed clothes with a nod of his head and pulling down his own camel colored trench coat.

She widened her eyes a little. "Um, I think that depends on _where we're going_."

Spike threw on the trench with almost practiced flourish, smiling again to show his dimples as he flipped up the collar of the coat and said, "Cambridge."


	24. Chapter 24

**_-Monday, August 19th. 11:46pm-_**

Spike was holding her hand.

It wasn't anything new. Not really. He'd held her hand before. God, he'd held her hand so many times before tonight that she couldn't even count them all. By now she knew the back of his hand like the back of her own. Had felt the weight and warmth of his palm and those long, strong fingers entwined with hers what seemed like a million times over by now. Here and there, in the secret of his office, off handedly as they'd made dinner together, while they'd made love. In her apartment and in his.

But this was different.

He was holding her hand in front of his father.

They were inside of Henry's study-the room Buffy had first guessed to be the library-sitting awkwardly side by side on a deep, large-cushioned sofa draped in currant-colored fabric. It sat in the very center of the smallish, overly warm room immediately opposite its exact match, both sofas flanked on either side by walnut end tables stained to match the finish on the book shelves that line all four walls, floor to ceiling.

Normally, she would have thought of the room as being all together cozy and perfect. Now though, she mostly just felt claustrophobic. Tense.

Kinda sick.

Spike had just finished talking. Literally, the last syllable of the whole sordid mess of a story had _just_ passed his lips, and now the pair of them sat very still, hands entwined, in the mounting silence all around them. He sat up straighter and cleared his throat, filling the space as they waited for his father to say something.

Anything.

She couldn't see the expression on his face and didn't want to risk looking up to check, but she imagined it was something between firm resolve and silent panic. Could feel the anxious tension flowing from his fingers as they tightened a little around hers. Buffy had her eyes down on the rug at her feet, the pointed toe of her heels peeking out from beneath the hem of Spike's sweatpants. She tugged his jacket tighter around her with her free hand, shivering once in spite of the warmth of the room.

She hadn't been able to make eye contact with Henry since arriving at his home thirty minutes ago.

He'd still been awake, thank God for small favors, though the fact that he'd had on what Buffy strongly suspected to be his pajamas meant he probably hadn't been expecting company. He'd smiled warmly, if not clearly surprised, and welcomed his son and his "friend" into his home without a second thought. Ushered them into the cozy study, offered them each something to drink. Smiled again and thanked his son when he'd offered to pour them each a brandy.

Which had left Buffy alone with Henry for the first time since their conversation at Drusilla's townhome over a week before.

Unsure of what to do or say, not even sure of where to put her hands, Buffy had jumped to fill the silence. Apologizing profusely for interrupting his evening, for showing up completely unannounced, and even more so for trailing wet footprints over his beautiful polished floors. Henry's response to all of the above had been to shush her and laugh, replying that she'd never apologize to him again if she knew what was good for her.

And completely at a loss to do anything else, she'd laughed back and made the mistake of meeting his gaze fully for the first time.

There was no judgement there, no disappointment, no condescension. There was only warmth, accompanied by the slightest glimmer that might have even been just a little bit mischievous.

And there was knowing.

Lots and lots of _knowing._

He'd been just about to say something, she was sure of it. Just about to smile and open his mouth and say _something_ that would have been as devastatingly nail-on-the-head as it was kind, and Buffy would have crumbled and fallen apart and admitted everything to him right then and there before Spike had even set foot back in the room.

Luckily, Spike _had_ come back into the room barely a moment later, one pretty, rounded brandy glass half full of amber liquid in each hand, and Henry had blissfully looked away from her to thank him.

And that had been the last time she'd made eye contact with him all night.

Now that things were silent, though, she risked a glance upward and eyed Henry through the cover of her lashes. He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't looking at Spike, either. His eyes were turned down to the glass in his hand, his lips pursed and cheeks hollowed in a thoughtful expression that was so like his son that Buffy nearly smiled.

Nearly.

The muscles in her face didn't quite want to move that way just yet, like they knew they'd be tempting fate or something. The butterfly knots in her stomach, the ones that had all but disappeared back before they'd left Spike's condo, had kicked up again as soon as she'd set foot inside Henry Pratt's home. Had started fluttering with a vengeance as soon as Spike had sat down on the plush sofa and pulled her down beside him. Had gotten progressively more tangled and twisted as he'd begun to talk, as he explained to his father in near painstaking detail about everything that had gone on over the last twelve years and then some.

They were downright frenzied now as Henry finally nodded and opened his mouth to speak.

"Well," the older man said slowly, looking down into his glass as he swirled the brandy inside. Then he half-sighed, half-chuckled to himself and looked up. "I can't say I'm surprised."

Spike looked plenty surprised for the both of them.

"You're not," he echoed just as slowly.

Henry widened his eyes. "About the two of you?" he asked, leaning forward and bracing his elbow over his thigh. Raising an eyebrow. "You think I'm an idiot?"

The room went quiet.

Spike just sat still and blinked at his father for a long minute. He opened his mouth, paused, thought better about it and closed it again. Glanced toward Buffy, who just shrugged. He frowned, then looked back toward the older man once more.

And Henry laughed, completely shattering all tension.

"You have a lot of talents, Will," he said on a sigh, leaning back and pointing a finger at his son, "but subtlety has never been one of them. I knew you weren't happy. Knew you hadn't been happy in a long time. So...when the changes started happening," his eyes flicked knowingly toward Buffy, then back again, "it was easy enough to start putting two and two together. Once I saw you together at Dru's it was all over." He took a sip of the brandy, then lowered the glass to reveal an almost rakish smile. He looked back and forth between the two of them, gesturing with his hand as he added, "Nothing about _this_ is rocket science."

Oh, heat.

Instant , and a whole heck of a lot of it was flooding Buffy's cheeks now as Henry met and held her gaze, his eyes twinkling. She was thinking back to the conversation they'd had that afternoon at his daughter's home...all the things she'd told him without actually telling him anything at all.

She bit down on the corner of her lip. Asked softly, "I gave us away, didn't I?"

But Henry was already shaking his head.

"Anyone with half a brain would've known there was a hell of a lot more than friendship between the two of you." He paused and tipped his head to the side, conceding almost as an afterthought, "And your sister ratted you out."

He took another drink, and Spike's expression darkened.

"I bloody knew it," he growled.

But Buffy wasn't thinking about Drusilla. She wasn't thinking about anything other than the fact that Henry had clearly known from very early on just what was really going on between herself and her boss.

She swallowed.

"So...all day Saturday," she began slowly, her voice still quiet. She squinted her eyes a little. "Out on the harbor, a-and...at the bar?"

Henry nodded once and told her breezily, "Yep."

Buffy pressed her lips together and nodded once back.

But Spike was frowning deeply. Dark brows knitted together, he narrowed his eyes, tilted his head to the side and asked, "Then why the bloody hell didn't you say anythin'?"

Henry frowned, unmoving.

"What good would that have done?" he asked, neither confused nor moved by his son's outburst.

And Spike just blinked a few more times, a little like the question confused him; the muscle in his jaw tight, shoulders tense.

"Well, it would've put us out of our bleeding misery for starters," he finally answered, eyes flashing even though he sounded like he wasn't so convinced anymore.

"And sent you into a tailspin instead," the older man shot back, clipped tone and flashing eyes matching his son's to the letter. He leaned forward again, adding, "I've been your father for thirty-seven years and I know you pretty damn well by now. You didn't tell me because you weren't _ready_ to tell me, kid." Then he paused, shrugged and leaned back once more. "I figured you'd let me know when you were."

Buffy caught herself side-eyeing the bleached blonde beside her as he stared the older man down, neither softening, neither seeming moved by the other's point of view. Truthfully, she wasn't sure who it was she agreed with more. True, it would have saved both of them a lot of time and wasted energy if Henry had just come out and told them that he knew, when he knew. It would have made Buffy's time spent dealing with Cecily a little more tolerable, too.

Maybe.

But Henry made a fair point, too.

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you sooner," she told him now, meaning it.

The older man softened as he turned his head and eyes to her, catching and holding her gaze with a tenderness in the twinkling blue she'd only ever seen directed at his children. Then he sighed, raised a brow and mused, "Guess it doesn't matter much now, anyway. Though we should probably make sure that we're all on the same page moving forward." He stood up and stretched, then gestured toward them with his brandy glass and said, "I'm assuming by the hand holding that you two have things worked out on your end."

Buffy glanced down for a moment, then back up in the direction of the man sitting beside her. His eyes were already there, like they'd been waiting for hers, and when their gazes locked he smiled. It was small and soft, and still on his lips when he turned his attention back to his father.

"We do," Spike said, pulling their entwined hands up and over into his lap.

Henry titled his chin back. "Consequences be damned?"

The pair of blondes exchanged another quick look before Spike nodded and sighed, half laughing as he responded, "That was the idea, yeah."

"Good," Henry said brusquely, lifting his glass to his lips and draining it in one long sip. Buffy watched as he swallowed then lowered the glass again. Exhaled. "Now that's settled, you wanna tell me what the _hell_ you were thinking?"

Buffy felt the muscles in her neck tense, the hand still held inside Spike's automatically tighten around his. Whether at the abrupt tonal shift in the older man's voice or just because she'd been dreading this particular, and also inevitable, part of the conversation, she wasn't even sure.

Spike looked like he'd maybe been mentally prepping all night for this.

His expression was calm, soft where Henry's was hard, as he gently let go of Buffy's hand and reached forward to set his own brandy glass down. Sighed, nodded once, then got to his feet.

"I know you're disappointed," he said after a moment, his voice slow as he looked up and met his father's eyes.

And this time, Henry's response wasn't what either of them expected.

"You're goddamn right I am," he shouted, truly raising his voice for the first time all night. It caused Spike to take a half-step back and Buffy's shoulders to shoot up around her ears. Either not noticing or not worried about the reactions he was inspiring, Henry continued, still shouting, "I'm disappointed that you felt like you couldn't come to me with this. That you thought I wouldn't have done _anything_ in my power to help you." His jaw ticking wildly, he paused, slammed his empty brandy glass down and levelled bright, burning eyes on his son. "When in your entire life have I ever given you reason to think I wouldn't have supported any choice that you made?"

"Never," the bleached blonde fired back in an instant, shaking his head, brows drawn. "Never. That wasn't the reason-"

"Then what was the reason?" Henry pushed, cutting Spike off, the flickering expressions passing over his face so quickly they were hard to keep track of. Frustration. Hurt. Disappointment. Out and out anger. "Cause I've gotta tell ya, kid, I'm having kind of a hard time figuring it out."

Spike paused before speaking again, eyeing his father from across the small distance before he glanced down at the ground. "I thought…I was protecting you," he said, sounding like it was taking some effort to keep his voice low, crossing his arms across his chest.

He looked up again when his father scoffed, both eyebrows shooting high on his forehead.

"Protecting me?" He echoed, and the way he said the words showed just how silly sounding a reason it was. "From what? I'm your father, William, it's not your job to protect _me_."

And there was so much, God, so much in just that one simple statement, in the haunted expression on Henry Pratt's face, that it nearly took Buffy's breath away.

There was so much in the words themselves, just as much in the obvious meaning behind them. What Spike had done, what he'd been doing for the past twelve years...and then keeping it all from his father, it _had_ been to protect him. He had thought that was the right thing to do.

But how much did it diminish, in Henry's mind, what he'd done for his children? For their mother? He thought all this time, for all these years, that he'd been doing the right thing only to find out now that his gift had effectively cost his son the last twelve years of his life. And all for what, the sake of an imaginary obligation?

And as she sat there and thought about it, about how both men were equally right in their own very different ways, as the two Pratt men stared at one another, Buffy suddenly realized that the moment they were having was a moment that didn't involve her.

Bracing her hands on either side of her hips, she scooted to the edge of the sofa. "Maybe I should…"

"No, Buffy," Henry said immediately, shifting his attention to her in one laser sharp movement. "You stay. You need to hear this too." He turned blazing blue eyes back on Spike, pointing a finger for emphasis. "I've been where you are before, Will. I told you...get all your worst qualities from me. That includes reckless abandon when it comes to the people we love." He exhaled through his nose and lowered his hand. "It also includes sometimes confusing selfishness for martyrdom."

That seemed to strike every chord at once.

Spike's expression darkened, his shoulders tensing as he stood up a little straighter and lowered his arms. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You honestly think I care more about the company than I do about you?" His father thundered back, temper raging again. "That I could give a half a damn if it isn't my name that's on the letterhead anymore? Nothing is worth more to me than you and your sister, William. _Nothing_." He inhaled, nostrils flaring, and said, "This situation is every bit as much about your own ambition as it is about me."

Everything stilled, the air in the room bubbling over with tension and heat, an oppressive sort of silence now that pressed in on all three of them from all sides as those final words settled over everything like dust.

And without another word, Spike sunk back down onto the sofa cushion beside Buffy.

"You're right," he admitted, his voice as slow as his sink back onto the sofa had been. His eyes were distant, focused somewhere out on the coffee table in front of him, seeing something that wasn't there. "It didn't start out that way, but...you're right."

Henry looked toward Buffy, a manifestation of instant regret on his face.

He looked back at his son, "Look, I didn't mean—"

"No, Dad," Spike cut him off, shaking his head and looking up at him. It was one of the first times Buffy had ever heard him call his father that. "You're right. Somewhere along the line the success became as good a reason to keep goin' as anything else. Should'a known it'd all catch up to me sooner or later. Everythin' I did, everythin' I've...done. The people I've done it to." He frowned deeply, then half-laughed, turning his face and his eyes on the woman beside him. His gaze traced her face for a long, quiet moment before he murmured, "What's that they say about the road to Hell?"

Buffy's stomach dropped and twisted, aching for the look in his eyes and the gentleness in his voice, the regret that was painted all over his face. Felt herself moved to reach up and cradle his cheek.

"Spike," she whispered, not knowing what else she could possibly say.

But if he needed her to say anything else he didn't show it, reaching up instead to cover the back of her hand with his and squeeze once before pulling her hand away, brushing a kiss along her knuckles.

Still cradling the back of her hand in his, he turned back to his father and whispered, "I'm so sorry."

Every trace of anger melted away from Henry's face as he gazed down at his only son and smiled sadly.

"Don't apologize to me," he insisted, raising both of his eyebrows once more. "I'm not the one that got cheated out of the last twelve years of his life."

Spike groaned at that, resting his head along the back of the sofa, reaching up to run a hand back through his hair. "You sound like Dru."

"Smart woman, your sister," Henry agreed. Then to Buffy, "Glad to know one of 'em has brains."

She smiled.

Spike opened his eyes and looked up at his father through his lashes, resting the back of his hand against his forehead as he muttered, "Very funny."

"Buffy laughed," Henry said plaintively, smirking when his son met him with a deadpan expression. Then he sighed, folding his hands together in his lap and sitting down on the arm of the sofa. "Everything's gonna be okay, kid."

Spike dropped his hand away from his forehead and, almost without thinking, reached for Buffy again.

"Even if we lose Pratt to Cecily?" he asked, splaying his hand over the curve of her knee.

"I said everything was gonna be okay," Henry clarified, not missing a beat, "not that everything was gonna work out."

"Bloody semantics," the bleached blonde mumbled, but he didn't sound quite as tense anymore. He began brushing his thumb back and forth across Buffy's knee, pressing the soft cotton of the sweat pants against her skin. They made eye contact again, and she could see him softening further, the abject relief that she knew he felt finally starting to make itself known. He smiled at her, lifted his free hand to brush her hair back behind her ear, and sighed, "Okay." He looked to his father. "What now?"

 ** _-Tuesday, August 20th. 5:55am-_**

Spike shimmied the spatula up underneath a pancake and flipped it, letting the underside hit harder than necessary and splatter across the griddle top. He wasn't looking at either Buffy or his father as he did so, instead staring down at the bubbling batter in front of him.

He accused, "So you're sayin' we shouldn't even try."

"That's not what he's saying," Buffy corrected him again, for what felt like the millionth time, sighing as she slid her elbow forward on the countertop. She propped her chin in her hand. "Don't put words in his mouth."

Beside her, Henry let out a loud peel of laughter.

In front of her, Spike's movements stilled.

He turned in one slow, smooth motion to look back at her from over his shoulder, one eyebrow perfectly arched. Not amused, but...not entirely unamused, either.

Buffy sighed again.

"Sorry," she muttered, only halfway meaning it.

The words had come out harsher than she'd wanted them to, but she was having a hard time controlling herself at this point. She was exhausted. They all were. And it seemed like they'd been having some form of the exact same argument for hours now. As if the topic of conversation hadn't been draining enough, they'd now been discussing said topic of conversation for the last...well honestly she wasn't even sure how many hours it had been. They'd started to sort of bleed together after hour four.

Spike turned back around, this time using the spatula to lift the small stack of now fully cooked pancakes onto a plate beside the stovetop. Setting down the spatula and picking up the plate, he turned his gaze on his father and said, "Fine then." He set the plate down on the counter in front of Buffy, sliding a fork in beside it. "What is it exactly you _are_ saying?"

"I'm saying that 'trying' could potentially cost us a lot of time and resources," Henry clarified, finishing the task he'd begun of cuffing his shirt sleeves and leaning to brace his elbows on the countertop next to Buffy. "And that I don't know how much good it would actually do."

Spike stepped backward and folded his arms, pursing his lips and hollowing his cheeks. Looking at his father like he'd maybe made a good point and that he'd sort of wished he hadn't.

Finally, he sighed and uncrossed his arms. "What do you suggest then?"

Henry made a big show of looking surprised, leaning back and widening his eyes, blinking several times.

"Are you actually going to listen to my advice now?" he asked, his voice equal parts annoyed and amused.

Spike's eyes narrowed. "Depends on what you say."

 _Oh, boy._

Buffy lowered her head and rubbed the back of her neck, listening to the two men bicker back and forth as she did. There was a stiffness setting into her upper back and shoulders that was as uncomfortable as it was familiar, the burning behind her eyelids reminding her of way too many sleepless nights back in college. She stretched her neck from side to side, then sat up straight again and blinked a few times, looking at the sky through the large French doors that opened out from Henry's kitchen to the backyard. The navy blue along the tree line was already fading into a hazy, almost purple on the horizon.

She frowned.

How long had it been since she'd pulled an honest to God all-nighter, anyway?

Was she too young to be getting too old for this?

"Even if we went to court," Henry was saying now, crossing the kitchen to stand beside his son, looking about ten years younger than she'd ever seen him as he poured himself another mug of coffee, "and I'm not even saying we _should_ , I don't think you have a snowball's chance of winning. She's really got you by the short and curlies on this one." At Spike's pinched expression, he laughed. "Oh, what? You know as well as I do what that _contract_ you signed says."

It was Buffy's turn to perk a brow this time. "Contract?"

"He means the pre-nup," Spike grumbled, crossing his arms and leaning back so his hip was resting against the edge of the kitchen island. His eyes met hers, bright and blue. "He's bein' funny."

"I'm being honest," Henry asserted, maneuvering back around the island toward the barstools. "The damn thing's not even worded like a marriage pre-nup. It's a business contract, plain and simple." He slid down on the stool next to Buffy and gestured pointedly with his mug. "And _you_ signed on the dotted line."

"To help _you_ ," Spike said, not missing a beat.

"In return for my helping you," his father countered.

The younger man exhaled through his nose and said, "Because you couldn't _afford_ to be helping me."

"Like that was going to stop me?" The older man shook his head and set his coffee mug down, pointing a finger at his son for emphasis. "You needed me, and I was going to be there for you no matter what that meant. Just like you were willing to do whatever it took for me to keep a hold of Pratt." He paused a moment to let the words sink in. Added, "It's who we are."

"What," Spike muttered, glancing off to the side, "bleeding-heart morons?"

But if Henry was offended by the assertion he didn't show it. He laughed, and the quiet, appreciative chuckle was an exact echo of his son's as he nodded once. Raising his coffee to his lips, giving them a wry smile around the rim, he murmured, "This whole family's full of 'em."

It was quiet for a minute as Spike turned his attention to Buffy, his eyes searching hers, as if for the first time both knowing and understanding where his father was coming from. Why he cared so much less about saving the company and so much more about simply making sure his son wasn't miserable anymore. It had been driving the bleached blonde nuts all night, she knew, because he'd mentioned it to her more than once. That he didn't understand. That his dad's reaction to everything didn't make sense in the context of everything he'd be losing.

But he softened now as he looked at her, the slow curve of a smile just starting to form on his lips before he turned back to his father.

"So you think it's a lost cause?" But his voice had lost the sharp edge it had held all through the night.

"I didn't say that." And so had his father's. "I just don't think the juice is worth the squeeze here. Do you really want to spend the next year, possibly two, tied up in a legal battle that you'll probably lose anyway? Talk about a waste of time and money." He stood up from the stool again, winding his way back toward the coffee pot. "There're much more productive ways to spend that energy if you ask me."

"And if you ask me," Spike argued with emphasis, brow furrowed, "it doesn't seem like a waste of energy to want to salvage what we can of our legacy."

"See," Henry breezed, popping the carafe back on the coffee maker and turning to point an accusing finger. " _That's_ your problem right there. You're still thinking about the company first."

Another arched brow, head tilt combo from the bleached blonde. "Meaning?"

His father turned around and leaned his back against the now-cooled stove top. "You're focusing on the wrong thing."

A silent beat passed between them.

Then another.

Finally, Spike sighed, "Are you planning to elaborate, or just keep cryptically tellin' me I'm wrong?"

"Buffy," Henry said, crossing his arms comfortably and raising his mug once more. He widened his eyes when they met hers, brows high. "You wanna take this one?"

She blinked a few times, eyes going wide as she stared at the older man. Surprised.

Maybe more than surprised.

It wasn't that she was surprised by what he was hinting at, but rather surprised that he was expecting her to be the one to drop that particular bombshell. Buffy knew without having to ask exactly what he was talking about. He'd told her as much in no uncertain terms last night the minute Spike had first excused himself to use the restroom.

It had taken her by surprise then, too. The way Henry had sighed like he was exhausted, and like it was so obvious, and then turned to her and told her point blank just how he really felt about the whole sticky situation. What he felt was the most clearly obvious answer to the problem. He'd asked her in hushed tones, an urgent edge to his voice, if she felt the same way. She'd had to explain to him, a little sheepishly, that she'd been thinking pretty much the same thing for quite a while.

She just hadn't ever had the courage to say it out loud.

Definitely not before Spike had made his decision, and not before he'd been brave enough to come clean to his father. She'd never been in a place or position in their relationship to say what she and Henry were now both clearly thinking.

She didn't particularly feel like she was in a place to say it even now.

"Umm, I don't…" she trailed off, swallowing. "I mean, it's...not…" She trailed off again, glancing anxiously from one Pratt to the other, both blue eyes trained expectantly on her. Feeling suddenly and completely out of her depth, she cleared her throat. Smiled too brightly. "I just think it'll mean more coming from you," she finally managed, dropping her attention to the stack of pancakes in front of her.

"Not so fast," Spike scolded, his voice only a little bit teasing as he stepped towards her.

Buffy paused, caught, a big forkful of fluffy pancake halfway to her mouth.

A sly smirk curving his lips, a knowing look in his eyes, he reached up and placed his finger on the middle of her fork. Lowered it again. "I think I'd like to hear it from you."

Her eyes immediately shot toward Henry for backup, hoping maybe he'd just bite the bullet for both of them and say it before she was forced to. No dice. He was just looking at her, patient but expectant, raising his mug to his lips to take a slow sip of his coffee. The action might as well have been sign language.

 _You're on your own._

Well...crap.

Steeling herself, she set the fork back down on her plate. Wiped her hands on the sweat pants. Bit down on her bottom lip and eyed him nervously.

"Buffy," he pressed.

She exhaled, "The Company itself isn't anything special, Spike."

He couldn't have looked more surprised.

"What?" he asked, taking a step back, clearly confused. His eyes shot over toward Henry.

The older man's ready answer, "We were drowning before you showed up and started running the show, or have you forgotten?"

"Of course not," his son countered, a borderline exasperated expression crossing his face. Like he already knew all this and didn't see the point in rehashing. "But that was _Cecily's_ money that turned things around, not-"

"Cecily's money is a moot point," Henry interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Spike lowered his chin and deadpanned, "Clearly you and I have very different definitions of the word 'moot'."

"Her money was a factor, but it wasn't the only one," his father continued, unruffled, pushing himself off the island and stepping forward. "Not even the most important one. It may have pulled us out of the red, Will, but it was you that made the company successful."

A beat.

"Me," Spike echoed dumbly, frowning. "You think _I'm_ the magic ingredient here?"

Buffy almost rolled her eyes.

For someone so consistently arrogant, he'd sure picked a hell of a time to start doubting himself.

"You're the only reason I wanted to come there," Buffy offered quietly, a fact that had been at the back of her mind for ages it seemed, but not one she'd ever quite gotten around to admitting before. And it was the soft, awed expression on his face that had her smiling and adding with a sheepish shrug, "You're a genius."

He gave her a look that told her she'd probably be paying for that comment later, but also like he was starting to realize where they were coming from.

"If Cecily wants Pratt Publishing," Henry continued, both his voice and his body language casual, "I say fine, let her have it. She still doesn't get _you_ , and you're the only piece of the puzzle that matters." He paused to smirk then, looking a little too pleased with the idea. "If she's too caught up in herself to see that she'll be running the whole show straight into the ground within six months."

Spike didn't seem nearly as amused at the idea as his father did. "And that's somethin' to smile about, is it?"

Henry did roll his eyes.

"Lord, for someone so smart you're awfully stupid. You're still missing the point," he shot back, more aggressively enthusiastic than harsh. He looked at his son and shook his head, throwing his arms out wide as if to demonstrate his next statement. "Why can't you see this for the opportunity that it is?"

And he was right.

He was so right, in fact, that it made Buffy feel like she wanted to jump out of her skin. Everything he'd said was true, and how it had somehow taken this long for someone to say it was just a little bit beyond her. And the answer was there, right there, right in front of all of them. And it was so obvious it was almost physically painful.

So why Spike still had a semi-dumbfounded look on his handsome face, she had no idea.

Clearing her throat, swiveling around on her stool so she was facing him, she reached out and took one of his hands in hers. Waited for him to meet her eyes before telling him, "He's saying you start a new company."

Henry grinned.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," he hummed, leaning back once more and crossing his arms, downright smug.

But the bleached blonde just sighed, the veil of confusion passing over his features and melting into a sort of bemused understanding.

"Right," he said dryly, rolling his eyes up toward the ceiling. "Start a new company with...virtually no capital. No reputation." He looked toward his father. "No _investors_."

Buffy frowned.

 _Oh._

Admittedly, she hadn't exactly thought about that piece of the puzzle yet. Money wasn't everything, no, but it definitely was a factor. It had to be. Capital was a real issue when dealing with a potential start up. And even if Spike was able to keep some of the money he'd made over the last twelve years working for Pratt, it still probably wouldn't be enough to float a brand spanking new publishing house.

Even a tiny one.

Henry didn't look worried in the slightest.

"I can't imagine they'll be that hard to find. And where exactly do you think your reputation's going?" he asked, narrowing his eyes and seeming genuinely curious. "It doesn't go poof and vanish just because you divorce your wife."

Spike made a face like he knew that already, and that it was his father this time who was missing the point.

Like the fact that he wasn't simply divorcing his wife, but planning to leave her for his much younger intern. And even if that wasn't actually what was happening, which really...it wasn't, it wouldn't matter in the long run. That's what it would look like.

Which must have been exactly what was going through his head because he gave voice to it a moment later, in a quiet, strained voice.

His eyes met Buffy's. "There'll be a scandal."

"There might not be," Henry insisted, still looking unconcerned by the idea.

"And if there is?" Spike challenged, his hand tightening almost unconsciously around Buffy's. She looked up at his face, noticing the way his jaw clenched and his eyes hardened a little at the idea.

Like he was bracing for impact.

And Henry groaned like he'd maybe finally reached his breaking point.

"So what if there is? You two know the truth." He pushed off the edge of the counter and stepped forward, dusting his hands off like he'd just finished something very labor intensive. He eyed his son specifically. "And it seems like a very small price to pay after twelve years of indentured servitude. Besides, I'm not sure the people you've made all that money for are going to care one way or the other who you're married to. Or not married to." He paused, glanced between the two of them, then added quickly, "You know what I mean."

Spike just raised an eyebrow, but Buffy could see the very beginnings of one of those slow, deliberate smiles starting to tug at the corner of his mouth.

Rolling his eyes, the older man started moving back through the kitchen, toward the hallway. "My point is that when the dust settles, you're still gonna be you, kid. Your resume is all they're gonna care about." He paused in the alcove between the kitchen and the hallway just long enough to shrug and say in a flat voice, "These people have no real moral code anyway."

And then he was gone, disappearing into the hallway with a low, self-approving chuckle, his footsteps echoing on the hard wood floors as he went.

Buffy sat there for a moment staring after him, wondering if that last part was true or not. Wondering if she and Henry were right. Wondering just a little bit whether or not she and Spike were going to make it now that they'd sort of, somewhat, maybe found a light at the end of what had always felt like such a very dark tunnel.

Spike squeezed her hand just then, drawing her eyes back and up toward his again, the expression on his face a little like maybe he'd just been reading her mind. His eyes were soft, though, and he looked almost at peace for the first time in nearly twelve hours.

"What do you think?" he asked, tugging gently and pulling her back onto her feet.

She let him. Thought his question over for another short moment, then told him honestly, "I think your dad is smarter than you are."

He smirked and thread his fingers through hers. "You might be right."

Buffy smirked back at him, shaking her head. It must have been the Pratt family curse; big brains and bleeding hearts.

"You deserve a fresh start," she continued, equally as honest though now a little more sincere. All the words she'd wanted to say for what felt like forever were freely tumbling out now. "After everything...Henry's right. Cecily was pretty much a glorified investor. You were the one running the show before. You made Pratt into what it is. _You_ ," she poked his chest, "not the money." She looked down. Looked up again. "I've always known that."

And that _was_ true. Unequivocally. Buffy hadn't even known how true until she'd said it.

Spike was looking at her now like he was torn between laughing out loud or quite possibly crying. Or kissing her. Maybe she was seeing a little bit of desire for all three.

In the end, he didn't do any of them.

"So you think we call it, then?" he asked instead, and he was genuinely asking, no trace of snark or any bite at all in his voice. He lowered their joined hands until they were resting between their waists, looking down at them like he was searching for the rest of the words. Or maybe just struggling to say them. "Just...let her have everything. No fight, no questions asked?"

Buffy stood still and gazed at him for a moment, mapping the furrow of his brow, the color of his lashes against his cheeks. She knew Pratt was something that was harder for him to let go of than he wanted to admit. He had worked so hard, for so long. He'd built himself an empire of sorts. He'd created something out of nothing, a name brand that would have lasted the rest of his career.

But at what price?

"It's already been twelve years, Spike." She dipped her head a little bit so she could catch his eyes, searching them, looking for an answer there before she'd even asked the question. "How much more of your time are you going to give her?"

 ** _-Monday, September 2nd. 10:46pm-_**

The answer? Virtually none.

Spike filed for divorce the next day. He didn't even wait for Lilah's go ahead before taking the papers down to the courthouse; he filled them out online and printed them himself, much to his lawyer's loud and very obnoxious horror.

Granted, simply the act of him filing for divorce wasn't enough in and of itself for the rest of the world as they'd known it to come tumbling down around them, but it didn't take very long at all for the tell-tale winds of abrupt and sudden, life-altering change to start blowing.

And blow they did.

"Tomorrow?" Buffy asked, feeling equal parts confused and a little betrayed as she made her way through the condo, picking up items of hers as she went and stuffing them into her bag. Her cheeks were on fire. "You're expecting me to do it _tomorrow_?"

"You're upset," Spike observed from behind her.

Gritting her teeth, she reminded herself how much she loved him, but couldn't quite stop herself from snarking, "Boy, nothin' gets past you," as she snapped up her phone charger and stuffed it into her bag.

He responded with a sigh, the rustling of fabric told her he'd probably just crossed his arms.

"Oh that's right," he drawled, sounding tired. "Vicious sarcasm, the quickest and surest route to meaningful communication."

Buffy turned to look at him again, brows raised and lashes fluttering. "Do you think that's helping? Because it isn't."

He mirrored her with a tilt of his head. "And your attitude is so pleasant?"

They each froze then, staring each other down, unmoving. Not speaking. Narrowed green eyes locked heatedly on challenging blue. For two people with a less than traditional relationship background, they sure knew how to push each other's buttons. They'd been sort of consistently pushing those buttons for days on end now. All weekend. No wonder things had escalated so quickly.

They both needed a break.

"You know what? It's late." Buffy hiked her overstuffed bag up onto her shoulder and re-gripped the strap. "I should go."

She started to move like she was going to side-step him when he exhaled loudly, reaching a hand back to smooth his hair as he muttered, "Bloody hell, Buffy, can we just talk about this for a minute?"

She paused in her tracks and blinked at him.

Talk. Talk _more_?

Hadn't that been all they'd been doing for the last week and a half?

They'd been spending all of their time together over the past two weeks, mostly just talking, figuring things out. It was catching up to them now. That's what this was. She knew it, and she was pretty sure that he knew it, too. Too much time together and basically no time at all apart. Hell, she'd practically been living at his condo since he'd stopped by her apartment on his way back from the courthouse and picked her up.

That was also the last time they'd slept together.

And it wasn't that she was complaining, because she got it. She totally did. Divorcing your vicious wife while also preparing to give her your whole life's work, well, it was draining. She didn't blame him for being on edge. She didn't blame him for all the talking he'd needed to do. For all the time he'd been wanting to spend with her, just…talking. And all that time had been wonderful. Valuable. Needed. And she loved him. She did. More than she even wanted to admit sometimes.

But God, she needed space.

Silence.

Just a little bit of it, but space and silence were definitely on the menu. She needed to go home, her home, and think through some things. Spend the night in her own bed. Not live out of a stuffed overnight bag...and the right side of his massive bedroom armoire that Spike had insisted she use.

That wasn't the point.

"It's late," she reiterated again, this time emphasizing the words as though they were the issue and not the latter half of the statement. "I need to get home."

"This is your home." Spike said the words without batting an eye, catching her by the arm as she attempted to skirt around him. Spinning Buffy back around so she had no choice but to meet his gaze again. When she didn't automatically pull out of his grip, he gentled just a little and lowered his voice. "Now please, tell me why you're so upset."

Buffy stared up at him, wondering what to say. Which truth to tell.

 _Because I'm exhausted._

 _Because all we do is talk lately._

 _Because this is_ happening _and I'm just slightly wigging out._

 **"** Because you're expecting me to waltz into work tomorrow morning and quit my job," she said, unwilling and unable to say any of the other reasons floating around in her head out loud. She looked away from him and toward the flickering candle on his coffee table, hiking her bag further onto her shoulder. "That isn't the kind of thing you just...spring on someone."

It was true, too, even if it wasn't the only truth there was. She didn't feel prepared to quit her job tomorrow. She didn't really even want to quit her job tomorrow. And maybe the worst part was she honestly wasn't sure if she didn't feel ready because she just wasn't ready, or because she was afraid of what it would mean. If she quit her job to be with him then that was it. _This_ was it. Forever.

And it was real.

If she walked in and quit her job tomorrow, it was all so very real. He would have officially left his wife for her and she'd have officially quit her job for him, and that was…it. And that it was a _huge_ it.

And sure, somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she probably should have thought about that when she'd decided to pursue Spike...or let him pursue her...or whoever the heck it was that pursued the pursuee, and that wasn't the point. The point was, she was twenty-two and about to choose a man over her job, had let him choose her over his career, and she just hadn't thought it through and now it was all happening very _fast._

Her chest felt a little tight.

Spike looked confused.

Still holding her by the upper arms, his expression clouded and brows drawing together, he told her, "I didn't realize I was 'springing' anything on you. We've talked about this." His eyes narrowed in that way she recognized as him trying to read her mind. "I thought you knew this was comin'."

"No," Buffy said immediately, pulling out of his grip. Then backpedalled at the expression on his face, adding, "I mean, _yeah_...I knew that this was coming." She shifted. "Eventually. I just didn't-"

"Think it'd be comin' this soon," he said, finishing the sentiment for her, his eyebrows going up in sudden understanding.

She stared at him for a moment. Her chest got a little bit tighter.

"I thought I might be able to finish my internship," she murmured half-heartedly, folding her arms protectively over her chest.

Spike laughed a little, nodding his head and turning his eyes down to the floor. Like he was only just now finally getting the joke. "You thought it'd take me longer to file for divorce, you mean."

Now both her stomach and her chest were tightening, her defenses dropping along with her heart.

Nothing could have melted her frustration faster than the softly wounded expression on his face.

"It's just...you did it so fast. Fast, fast." Buffy lifted a hand and ran it back through her hair, pulling it away from her face so she could think. "After all the back and forth and all the convincing it took for you to finally make a decision," her eyes shot back to his, "and that all felt very slow, ya know? Like….ancient tortoise slow." She looked away again, shaking her head. "But now we're all hare-like, and everything is actually _happening_ , and it's happening so...fast."

There was a long, quiet pause while they both seemed to be thinking that over. A beat as the words settled around them and Buffy wondered if she'd done the right thing in telling him what she was really thinking, if she'd even managed to explain it the right way at all.

Another beat as she wondered if the anxiety she'd been feeling about quitting her job might have been anxiety over something else entirely.

Then Spike asked, "Cold feet?"

Buffy's head shot up again.

"No," she said on instinct, the word coming out so sure and so loud in the space between them that it actually made Spike flinch.

Then laugh.

Then smile, softening once more as he looked at her and saw whatever it was he'd been hoping to see reflected back at him.

"No," he echoed, though the word now had a warmth to it that hadn't been there before.

The ache in her chest releasing a little, she smiled back.

"No," Buffy said again, moving to set her bag down on the large leather chair to her right. She turned back to Spike and stepped toward him, saying, "I have toasty feet. The toastiest." A beat. "Wool-sock and a fireplace level toasty."

He raised a skeptical brow but his lips were still smiling. "Then what's with the tortoise metaphor?"

Her smile fell a little.

She'd meant what she'd said, so she wasn't sure she could tell him that she hadn't. Things were moving fast. Things before had been moving slow. That was truth. That was fact. Whether or not she was honestly getting the wiggins over the fact that things were now changing so quickly, or just that she'd been thinking she'd have a little more time to get used to the idea of things changing so quickly, she wasn't certain. She didn't have cold feet about her feelings for him, she knew that.

She might have had lukewarm feet about some other things. Things that she'd sort of been planning to keep bottled up.

Not like _that_ had ever completely blown up in her face before…

And besides that, she knew. She knew looking at him now, at the soft expectancy on his face and the half smile on his lips and that little spark in his eyes that she'd first noticed in the bar that she had to tell him. That she needed to tell him. She needed to put syllables into words and words into sentences and explain to him what it was she was afraid of, because it wasn't fair to him and it wasn't fair to her, and if things were going to go all "pear-shaped" as Spike liked to say, then...well, better to have put everything out on the table before they had a real chance to.

She knew all of that.

So why did it feel like pulling her own teeth out with rusty pliers trying to form the words?

"What happens when it's all over, Spike?" She asked, forcing the words out on a whisper and refusing to look at him. "I don't feel like you've even thought about that. What happens when it's done and final a-and you're divorced and I'm not your intern anymore and you're not my boss and we're totally all with the free and clear to actually _be_ together." A pause. "What happens then?" she asked one final time, willing the twisting knots in her stomach away as she risked a glance at the man standing in front of her.

The man who was full on smirking at her now.

She rolled her eyes on instinct.

"What happens...when it's not entirely forbidden and star-crossed, you mean?" he asked, saying without saying just how incredibly silly he thought she was being.

Which made Buffy bristle and bite back, "Don't laugh at me."

Ignoring her, he glanced toward his kitchen and mused aloud, beginning to close the distance between them. "So I'd be...Daisy in this scenario then, yeah?"

Gatsby reference aside, Buffy kind of wanted to punch him in the face.

"Spike," she warned, backing away from him. The gleeful glint in his eye was making it hard for her to stay as stern as she wanted.

"It'll be January before the divorce is final if that makes you feel any better," he assured her with mock sincerity, his smirk slipping dangerously into full on grin territory as he reached for her.

She sidestepped him and made a beeline for the door, informing him over her shoulder, "I'm leaving."

Spike was laughing as he caught her deftly by the wrist and spun her back around once more, tugging her against his chest.

She let him.

Catching and holding her against him, he looked down into her face and smiled. Then, laughter fading, the look in his eyes growing warm and serious, he asked, "You think I'd be daft enough to let you go once I finally have you, free and clear? That I would suddenly just not love you anymore? Honestly Buffy," he breathed, looking at her a little bit like he wanted to devour her right then and there. "What kind of fool do you take me for?"

Buffy stared up at him and fought the urge to tremble in his arms, his words and his eyes making her knees do the wobbly thing they hadn't done in weeks. And she didn't think he'd like her answer very much, but she couldn't keep herself from thinking it.

 _The best kind._

She started to smile, then caught herself and turned her head into his chest to hide it. Nuzzled her cheek into the fabric of his shirt. Inhaled the scent of mint and soap.

"I love you," she whispered against his t-shirt, enjoying the way he pulled her more tightly into his arm.

Because she did, and right now in the midst of all the absolute insanity that kind of just needed to be enough.

"I bloody well hope so," he said wryly, his chin now resting against the top of her head. "Hate to have flushed both our careers down the toilet for nothin'."

She struggled in his arms as if she were going to pull away but he held tight, only pulling her more firmly against him as he laughed.

"You're not funny," she muttered, relaxing into him again. Closing her eyes as the low rumble of his chuckle reverberated through her chest.

He reached up and rubbed his hand over the back of her head, saying, "I'm kind of funny."

Normally, Buffy would have argued with him again. Now though, she couldn't seem to find the energy.

Trying to face your anxieties head on was exhausting.

"Better?" Spike asked after a few quiet moments had gone by, pulling away just enough to be able to look down into her face again.

She considered the question for what it was and decided on the honest answer, which was something along the lines of _for now_.

But she didn't feel like putting a damper on the moment so instead she said, "Depends." Quirked a brow. "Do I still have to quit my job tomorrow?"

"I think it'd be best, luv," he told her, and the expression on his face was no longer jovial or mocking, but stern. "The sooner we get it done and finalized, the better. Give me time to let the dust settle before things go pear-shaped." He tilted his head to the side, eyes soft but steady on hers as he added, "Give _you_ time to look for a new job while I can still provide a credible reference."

Oh.

Now her chest felt tight for entirely different reasons.

"You think it could get that ugly?" she asked quietly, seeing the shift come over his expression again as it hardened and clouded over.

Spike just nodded. "Oh, I'd put money on it. Way I see it, you have two options-either resign on your own terms or let Cecily have the chance to fire you."

Buffy frowned.

That really didn't leave her with the warm fuzzies.

"Those are my only options?" she asked, pulling out of his embrace and sinking down onto the edge of the big leather chair she'd set her bag on earlier.

He sat down on the arm of the chair beside her. "We're very much in a 'pick your poison' scenario."

Buffy thought about that, not necessarily disagreeing with him there. He had been right earlier; she had known this was coming. They'd discussed it a little bit at Henry's house that night, and a little more a few days later. She'd known from the word go that she wasn't going to be able to keep her job at Pratt. Not with Cecily taking over.

She'd just figured maybe she'd have a little more say in the _when_ of things.

"You think I should resign tomorrow," she murmured, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she mulled it over.

It wasn't a question.

Spike sighed and looked up to the ceiling, folding his hands into his lap. When he spoke, it was more like he was thinking out loud. "It'll look a lot better if you walk in and resign on your own terms than if Cecily fires you outright. Especially if she gets a chance to list the reasons for your termination."

It was Buffy's turn to smirk at him. "What, that I slept with the boss?"

His eyes shot back to hers, no trace of amusement anywhere on his face, the severity in his eyes wiping the smirk clean off her face.

"That isn't somethin' you want following you around the rest of your career," he told her seriously.

Chastened, a little stung, she got to her feet and took a couple steps toward the bookshelf.

Paused.

Turned back around to face him and asked, "And you think me randomly resigning a month and a half shy of finishing one of the more prestigious publishing internships in the country will make all this seem less scandalous than her just firing me?"

Spike was on his feet again, too.

"It's a scandal no matter what if she decides to make it one," he told her evenly. There was an eeriness to the matter-of-fact tone in his voice that set her on edge. "And her word means a hell of a lot more than yours does in the industry."

Something about that statement, no matter how very true it was, set Buffy's skin crawling. Raised her hackles. Made her cheeks hot and her chest ache in that way things ached when everything was messed up and there wasn't anything on earth she could do about it.

It wasn't fair that the price of Spike's happiness was the company he worked to build.

It wasn't fair that Cecily had written him into a corner with her stupid pre-nuptial business contract.

It wasn't fair that Spike had made a dumb decision as a young man and was paying for it now.

And dammit, it wasn't fair that she was having to pay for it, too.

Worth it in the end, but not _fair._

"So what?" she asked, channeling the aching unfairness in her chest into an indignant half-shout. "She's gonna keep me from getting another job by spreading rumors about me?"

"Rumors?" Spike challenged, his voice still very calm. A little pained.

Buffy snapped her mouth shut again, feeling it happen. The moment that she realized for maybe the very first time since that night at Henry's house, the night she'd faced down Cecily….the night that Spike had chosen her, what all of this meant in the end.

She stood very still for a moment, letting the truth of the words settle on her shoulders even as she asked him, "This is going to follow me, isn't it?"

Spike's eyes grew troubled as he gazed at her, not even bothering to nod.

She didn't need him to nod. She understood now. One way or another, whether she quit or "resigned" or get fired, this was going to follow her. At the very east...rumors of it would. That was what she was seeing in Spike's eyes now. What she'd been mistaking on him as cold feet. What she'd been so worried about.

Guilt.

"And if we're...still together…" she trailed off and let the words hang there, because it didn't seem necessary to finish them.

"I know," Spike said, and his voice wavered just a little. He sighed and put his hand on her cheek, almost begging now. "So don't do her any favors, luv. Harder for her to pin things on you if you leave before she has a chance."

Buffy knew he was right. It didn't make anything about the situation any easier, but she knew enough about his wife to know that she'd go out of her way to make things more difficult for her than they needed to be if she stayed and kept working like nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

And the sooner she accepted and dealt with the bad, the sooner she could get to moving on and enjoying the good.

"Okay," she said, because there wasn't much else to say.

Spike was watching her very carefully now. She had the feeling he was maybe waiting for her to freak out again. Or maybe waiting for her to fall apart. Or change her mind.

She wasn't going to.

"I'm okay, Spike," she assured him, and a little bit herself. Tried for a smile. "I am, really. I get it. This is fine."

"It's not _fine_ , luv," he said, almost laughing again, though this time not like anything was funny. He turned his back on her and continued, "But if we get a jump on these things now it'll be better in the end. I'll be the one to file your official resignation and deal with HR, then you can truthfully list me as your sole supervisory reference from Pratt."

She nodded though he couldn't see her, thinking that made pretty good sense.

"So they'll call you instead of her?" Buffy clarified even though she didn't need to.

He nodded once. "Or instead of the wanker she hires to replace me."  
She nodded back, both in understanding and agreement, and inhaled through her nose. Then she reached both hands back, threading her fingers into her hair and exhaling, "I'm always going to be the intern that slept with her boss."

"Not always," Spike disagreed, offering her a small, playful smile. "Maybe for a year or two." A beat. "Five tops."

Buffy dropped her hands to her sides and fixed with him with a hard look.

"This isn't funny," she told him plaintively.

"No, it isn't." Spike sobered in an instant, the smile vanishing from his eyes even though a forced, hollow version remained on his lips. "But if I don't make jokes the guilt'll crush me and I might actually cry, and I can't have that." His eyes searched hers, growing wet. "What would you think of me?"

And she'd swear she could hear the sound of her heart cracking down the middle.

"Spike," she whispered, but he'd already turned away from her.

She watched as he sank down onto the edge of the sofa and dropped his head into his hands. Not looking at her, maybe unable to look at her, he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

There was that shattering, breaking sound again.

Dimly, very dimly, she realized she should go to him, but she couldn't. She felt stuck. Frozen. She'd heard him be self-deprecating before. She'd seen him beating himself up before. She'd even seen his eyes do that before, his thick lashes grow wet and stick together, his voice shake.

But she'd never seen him do this.

"You don't need to apologize to me," she managed to tell him, trying and failing to approach him. She still felt stuck.

Her voice was wavering a little, too.

"But I do," he countered, shaking his head. He raked his fingers back through his hair and forced himself to look up and meet her eyes. "I hate what I've done to you. How selfish I've been. All this time I've been so bloody consumed by the guilt of what I'd done to Cecily and the obligation I've felt toward my family that I never once stopped to consider what might happen to _you_." He growled suddenly and tore his gaze away, standing up. "Damnit, Buffy, even when you tried to tell me this was about both of us I only ever really saw myself. My wasted time, my effort, my _fucking_ consequences."

He turned his back, kicking his heel hard into the edge of the massive wooden coffee table for emphasis, both the severity of the word and the hollow thud both doing their part to break whatever spell it was that had been freezing Buffy to the spot.

Freed, feeling suddenly angry, she moved toward him on impulse. The words slipping out on impulse, too.

"You were the one with the most to lose."

Spike turned his attention to her and narrowed his eyes, brow furrowed, angry. "Oh, come off it, Buffy. Quit bein' so bloody cavalier about all this. Be angry with me." He paused to take a breath, his chest heaving with the effort, and exhaled, "I need you to be angry with me."

She looked at him like he'd completely lost it. "For _what_?"

"For pullin' you into this," Spike shot back, emphasizing the word with a flick of his wrist, planting his free hand on his hip and angling his back to her again.

"You didn't pull me into anything," she said, not even sure if she meant it or not.

He whirled on her again.

"Yes, I bloody well did. Kicking and screaming if memory serves." He pointed at her with his free hand and shouted, "You didn't want this, you _told_ me you didn't want this."

"You're right," she shouted back.

Spike shifted backward, caught off guard. He blinked at her. She blinked back. That wasn't what he'd been expecting. She didn't think it was what she'd been expecting either.

But it was true.

"You're right," she said again, much softer this time as she reached to take his hand. "I didn't want this. _This_ is exactly the kind of mess I was trying to avoid." She paused and gave a shaky exhale. Looked down. "But I wanted you. Bad enough that I was willing to deal with all the rest of it. I didn't choose this but I did choose you." She unclenched his fingers and slipped her hand inside his, looking up. "And you come with the mess."

Spike cupped her cheek in his free hand and kissed her.

She kissed him back instantly, almost greedily, relishing in the way he was drinking her in. The warmth of his hand against her cheek where he held her steady. The warmth of his other hand where it found the small of her back and not so subtly pulled her against him. And when he dipped his hands and trailed the tips of his fingers up the backs of her thighs, slid his hands up beneath the hem of her dress and groaned desperately into her mouth, she almost groaned herself from sheer relief.

It felt like it had been _years_ since he'd kissed her like this.

When the shift happened, it happened fast, and suddenly they were both tearing at each other. Hands and lips and tongues somehow connecting and clashing all at once, pushing and pulling and fighting for dominance. He tasted like salt and sun, cherries from her lip balm. Perfect. Spike.

And he was more hers now than he'd ever been before.

She dropped her hands and tore at his belt, fumbling with the buckle. Managing to get it undone just in time to feel him thrust against her, his hands twist in the fabric of her dress. He groaned again, and Buffy shivered. Kissing his neck, his chin, his jaw, she pressed further into him even as she pulled at his t-shirt. Somehow, in the tangle of greedy hands and mouths, she managed to get it off. Stepped back to give him space to toss it to the ground, then threw herself back into his arms again.

Got the button on his jeans popped.

And then Spike was wrapping his arms around her, all but growling against her lips as he spun them around and landed with a not so graceful bounce on top of the leather sofa. Yanking her down hard on top of him. Buffy landed half straddling him, breathless, laughing, her sundress bunched up around her hips. His hands were holding the fabric, pinning it there. Her hands were braced on the curves of his bare shoulders as she pushed herself up into a sitting position.

And he was looking at her very seriously now. Not stern, just...serious, like he was mapping her with his eyes. Scanning her face, gaze trailing down the bridge of her nose, across her lips, down her throat, then back up to her eyes.

"Who knows what the bloody hell I've done to deserve you," he murmured, brushing his thumbs over her hip bones.

And Buffy looked up at the ceiling and sighed. Couldn't help it.

"Ya know, eventually you're gonna have to stop with the 'I'm a terrible person, I'm so sorry, I don't deserve happiness' shtick." She looked down at him and raised a brow. "It's getting _so_ old."

"Never," Spike insisted, suddenly playful again. He pinched her hips and bucked beneath her, grinning fiendishly when she made exactly the tiny, breathless noise he'd clearly been hoping she would. Then he stilled, sliding his hands up the slope of her lower back. Pulling her down like he was about to kiss her but stopping just short. And with his blue eyes fierce and painfully earnest on hers, he told her, "I'll be apologizing to you for this for the rest of my life."

Feeling warm and pleasantly fuzzy all over, she smiled, her lips were hovering barely a millimeter over his. And looking up at him through her lashes, she whispered, "Is that a promise?"

 ** _-Tuesday, September 3rd. 3:26am-_**

"Do you think she'll change the name?" Buffy asked.

Her cheek was resting flat on top of Spike's chest, her eyes focused on the ribbons of grey light the moon was casting along his bedspread. His arm was around her, tracing little patterns over her shoulder. Neither of them had been able to sleep.

"Of the company?" he asked back, not even a hint of sleep in his voice. She felt him half-shrug. "Dunno. Haven't given it much thought, I s'pose." A beat as he thought it over, then he chuckled. "I doubt it. Cecily's not stupid, she understands the value of a name brand when she sees one."

Buffy frowned against him, her voice muffled when she asked, "Why does that feel like it makes it worse?"

Spike just chuckled again, but this time like he did actually find something funny.

"Probably 'cause it does," he answered, breathing deeply.

She thought about that for a minute, drumming her nails in a lazy rhythm against his ribcage before shifting, turning her head so it was her chin propped on his chest and not her cheek. Wondered why she was only know thinking to ask him about his plans.

His eyes met hers through the darkness, and she slid the back of her hand underneath her chin. Asked, "Are you gonna quit, too?"

The way he looked back at her told her everything she needed to know, and he knew it.

He answered her anyway.

"Need to follow my own advice here I think," he sighed, though he sounded like it was something he'd already made peace with. "The longer I stay on the more chance she has to muck things up for me, too."

That much was true, and also something she was starting to make peace with herself. There wasn't anything worth risking more damage than had already been done, and now that his paperwork had been filed and all of the chess pieces were moving, more time spent inside Pratt only equaled more time for things to get messy. The sooner she and Spike each got things squared away and got the heck out of Dodge, the way better off they'd all be.

Cecily included.

"Will it be today?" Buffy asked, feeling a little like she was playing a not so fun round of 20 questions.

Spike shook his head and murmured, "No, not today." He drew his hand up over her shoulder and slid his palm along her neck, threaded his fingers up into her hair. Started massaging the tender spot at the base of her skull. "Couple'a weeks, maybe. It'll be near October before the transfer paper work's all final...need to spend that time gettin' some things in order. Make sure the employees are all taken care of, that the people who deserve to keep their jobs can."

That made her heart do a funny little stutter-slam into her chest, her eyes grow wide.

She braced her hand on the mattress and pushed herself into a sitting position. "You think she'll clean house?"

He looked at her like he was surprised she even had to ask and simply responded, "I think she'll try."

Her heart stutter-slammed again.

"So...people like Cordelia," Buffy began, swallowing against the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. "A-and Xander? Are they in danger?" He didn't answer her right away, and she felt her stomach knotting up as she pressed, "Spike, are all of my friends going to lose their jobs, too?"

Spike quieted her with a low shushing sound and the cool pressure of his hand against the side of her face. His eyes were very steady, very intentional, where they caught and held hers. He swept the pad of his thumb over cheek once. Twice. Then stilled, holding her there so she couldn't look away.

"They will be fine," he promised, speaking slowly for emphasis, "because I will make sure of it."

She just sat there and stared at him for a moment. Blinked a few times. With her body angled toward his, her weight still held up by just one of her hands, she started to relax again. Felt the sudden weight of her fear for her friends lifting, the twisting knots in her stomach uncurl. Wondered at just what point exactly Spike had suddenly become all Buffy Whisperer.

"It's totally freaky how much I believe anything you say when you look at me like that," she whispered, watching as the intensity of his gaze lifted a little and a softer smile formed on his lips.

"Yeah?" he mused, looking pleased with himself. He tipped his head to the side. "That mean you trust me?"

And she knew the answer without a second thought.

"Yes," she said. Simple, honest, straight to the point.

Because that's just the way it was with them now.

She did trust him, _was_ trusting him. It was only now that she seemed to be realizing how much. She was trusting him to do what needed to be done moving forward into an entirely unknown scenario where she was frankly just out of her depth. She was trusting him to protect his employees, her friends, what he could of the Pratt legacy. To do what he could to protect her future career. And above everything else, she was trusting him implicitly to do what was best for both of them. To help navigate them through what was undoubtedly going to be a very unpleasant, unstable time in both their lives. She was trusting him to choose her, to _keep_ choosing her, every day as they found their way out of the muck and the mess.

She trusted him not to hurt her just like he trusted her not to hurt him, and after everything that he'd been through it seemed a minor miracle to Buffy that they'd ever gotten as far as they had. That they'd made it to where they were now.

That they were going to make it through where they were going.

Something Buffy was thinking about when she looked down at the moonlit patterns on his chest and asked, "Things are about to get hard, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Spike conceded, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his side. Pressed his lips to her temple. "But we'll be okay," he murmured, the words more a promise than anything else, a new spark blazing in his eyes when she turned her head to look at him. Something that looked an awful lot like defiance. "You and me, we'll be okay."

Buffy settled into his embrace, curved herself into the crook of his neck and sighed. Closed her eyes.

"I know," she told him, because for the first time since that muggy night at that dive bar three months ago she felt like she knew they would be.


	25. Chapter 25

_**-Thursday, October 3rd. 3:15pm-**_

Dawn sighed into the phone, sounding annoyed with the conversation already as she said, "You had one bad interview, Buffy. It isn't the end of the world."

"Two," Buffy corrected her sister, tone flat, shoving her way into the apartment and letting the heavy door slam shut behind her. She tossed her keys on the counter and kicked off her heels, heading for the bedroom. "Two bad interviews."

Two bad interviews in the span of the two weeks she'd actually been interviewing, which didn't even account for the full week and a half before that when she'd been searching for jobs nearby to apply for. For positions she even _partially_ qualified to apply for. It had been the longest month in the history of months, and she was nowhere closer to finding a new job now than she'd been the day she marched herself into Spike's office and handed him her letter of resignation.

The actual quitting part hadn't been as bad as she'd expected, though the explaining _why_ she'd done the quitting to Cordelia and Xander proved to be a little difficult.

She'd told them the truth, seeing as there hadn't been much point or purpose in hiding it anymore. Neither one of them had seemed all that surprised, which Buffy had chosen not to think too much about.

It didn't matter now, anyway.

On the other line, her little sister sighed again. "And _what_ about these interviews exactly was so bad?"

Buffy frowned at the phone as she pulled it away from her ear and put it on speaker, setting it on her bedside table as she thought it over. It was a good question, an easy question, but she was having a hard time putting her finger on the correct answer.

"I don't know," she muttered finally, starting to pull her blouse free from the waistline of her skirt. "I just..I got so nervous, Dawn. I _never_ used to get nervous during interviews. I was speechless. No," she amended, her voice muffled as she yanked the silky blouse over her head and tossed it on the bed, "not speechless, because I was definitely making some kind of noise with my mouth. I was….wordless. I was stumbling over everything and forgetting answers to questions I've answered a million times. And if I was this nervous during these interviews, how nervous am I going to be when I'm sitting across from people who _don't_ owe Spike favors?" Buffy finished wiggling out of her skirt and dropped it, letting it fall to a pool around her feet. Stepping out of it, she paused, choked a half-laugh and bent down to snatch it off the ground, adding, "If I even _can_ get an interview with someone who doesn't owe Spike a favor."

"You will," Dawn assured her, the creaking of her dorm room's ancient mattress springs sounding over the line. "There have to be people that owe Henry favors, too."

Buffy rolled her eyes, casting her cell phone a sidelong glance as she turned and tossed her skirt to the bed beside her top.

"Your loving sisterly mockage aside, this is serious," she muttered, turning and stepping to her dresser. She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a pair of red leather pants she'd sort of been hoping would never see the light of day again. "I don't know what I'm gonna do if I can't find another publishing job nearby."

Or rather she _did_ know, she just wasn't ready to start giving that option any kind of real thought yet. Not with things the way they currently were. Not yet. Not _now_.

"Have you talked to Spike about it?" Dawn asked, sounding like she still thought her older sister was being a little dramatic.

"No." Buffy located the torn t-shirt she'd been looking for and pulled it out, pushing the top drawer shut. "He's been busy." At the flat, stony silence on the other end of the line, she added, "With trying to get everything wrapped up at Pratt, and dealing with Lilah and Cecily, and Cecily's lawyers, and his family, and the...copious amounts of paperwork." A pause. "Busy."

The dorm bed's mattress creaked again.

More silence.

Then the younger Summers asked, "How long has he been busy for?"

Fully dressed now, Buffy spun around and sat down on the bed, falling backward until her head hit the pillow.

She sighed, "I haven't seen him since Sunday."

It was true. She'd talked to him every day but she hadn't seen him, physically seen him, since Sunday night when they'd gone over to Henry's to have dinner with him and Drusilla. It was the longest they'd gone without physically being together since...well, _being_ together. A measly four days. It might as well have been weeks.

And as much as she understood why she hadn't been able to see him, or as much as she _wanted_ to understand, it was starting to bug. And weigh. And all the things it tends to do when you can't be around the person you constantly crave being around.

She'd wanted a little space, sure, but this was ridiculous.

On the other end of the line, Dawn gave a long, low whistle.

Buffy sighed again. "Yeah."

"Will you see him this weekend?"

"Tomorrow," Buffy answered, her forearm up and thrown over her closed eyes. "Maybe. He has some big, awful meeting with the lawyers today and I have my first 'real' shift at work tonight, so...maybe tomorrow."

Her little sister sounded suddenly sad. "Are you okay?"

"What?" Buffy asked, lifting her arm and opening her eyes in an instant. "Yeah, of course. Totally. It's just been a long week, you know, with the new job and the training and the Faith." She grimaced and pushed herself up onto her elbows. "Sort of...constant Faith."

"And no Spike," Dawn murmured, understanding.

"Exactly," Buffy agreed, sitting all the way up, glancing toward her bedside table. "But I'll see him this weekend, so who's complaining? Not me. Besides, isn't this normal?" She reached out and touched a finger to the edge of the pretty new picture frame on her bedside table, angling it toward her. "Sort of your average, every day dating. Most dating people don't work together like we did or see each other all day, every day. Or even every other day." She was working at convincing herself as much as anything else as she added, "Some even go weeks."

Her little sister chuckled. "Doesn't mean you have to like it."

Buffy smiled down at the phone, wondering when exactly her little sister had gotten so smart.

"Yeah, well, I don't. But it's good for us, I think. Doing the 'normal' thing." She swiped her thumb over the glass in the new frame, sitting beside and just slightly behind the photo of her sister and mom. A candid shot Drusilla had taken a few weeks ago. Buffy and Spike looking at each other; eyes bright, heads tilted, laughing. She smiled. "It makes it all feel real."

She knew how insane it probably sounded.

"More real than him divorcing his wife and leaving his company for you?"

And apparently so did Dawn.

The older girl wrinkled her nose up, lips twitching upward. "Weirdly, yeah?"

Dawn seemed to think about that for a moment.

Then, "That makes no sense."

Buffy had to agree.

She couldn't put her finger on why the normal, everyday stuff seemed to make their relationship feel so much more tangible than everything else had. It wasn't like she thought the big stuff didn't matter. Of course it mattered. The big stuff was big, and important. Necessary. Very...grand gesture-y.

But lately it had been the little things.

The way he looked at her after they hadn't seen each other for a couple days. The subtle but unmistakable use of the word "we" when talking to his family about their upcoming plans. The phone calls he made to her on his way home from work; having to ask each other about their days because they actually _had_ different days to talk about and different things to share. The looks on both their faces in that single, candid snapshot.

The way he'd kissed her outside of her apartment building last weekend. Broad daylight, out in the open. For anyone to see.

The not hiding, that was the biggest little thing of all.

Not hiding felt good.

Not hiding was worth the subtle ache she felt in her chest when she started to miss him, because the missing him was temporary.

The not hiding was forever.

 _ **-Thursday, October 3rd. 7:45pm-**_

Buffy liked the bar for the most part.

She'd liked it ever since she first gone to visit Faith there. She liked the smokey atmosphere and the boisterous patrons, the torn red leather on the pub chairs, the colored glass in the low hanging light fixtures. And even though it had only been a week since she'd started, she liked working there, too. She'd already gotten to know a few of the regulars, the tips were surprisingly great, and both Faith and Lindsey were easy people to work with. For.

Technically, Faith was her boss.

But all in all, she could have done a lot worse in the way of part-time jobs.

Something she was having to remind herself a little more than normal as she wiped down a particularly sticky table.

She was bent over the grainy wood, one hand braced on the edge she'd already cleaned to keep her balanced while the other scraped the wet rag back and forth over the sticky brown residue—what had once been a whiskey and coke—when she heard it. Heavy booted footsteps on the ground just behind her, and then a voice.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

Buffy dropped the rag and whirled around.

There, with his back against a support beam and his arms crossed, looking long and lean in his black button down and black jeans, was Spike. Eyes bright and bleached hair spiked, he held his chin thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger—each one decked in silver rings—and grinned at her.

"Hey, pet."

She launched herself at him.

He caught her but just barely, laughing against her lips as she crushed them against his. He kissed her back once, then once again as she pulled away, sliding her hands down from the back of his neck to the open lapels of his button down. She curled her fingers into the fabric there and leaned against him.

Grinning, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

Spike cocked his head to the side. "Surprised to see me?"

"Hence the question," Buffy replied, too pleased and excited and plain relieved to see him that she didn't even bother to roll her eyes.

"Happy to see me?" He persisted, placing his hands on her hips and raising both brows expectantly.

"Hence the kiss." She let go of one lapel to reach up and wipe the corner of his mouth with her thumb, removing the lipstick stain she'd left there. Then she frowned. "But really, what are you doing here? I thought I wouldn't see you 'til tomorrow."

Because he'd told her that. That he probably wouldn't be able to see her until Friday because his meeting with the lawyers was supposed to go so late tonight. Buffy frowned deeper and tried to read his expression, wondering what it might mean that it clearly hadn't gone as late as he'd expected.

But Spike just shrugged like it wasn't any big deal and told her, "Wanted to surprise you."

Buffy gave him a small disbelieving look and dropped both hands away from his shirt.

"That's all?" she pressed. Her eyes were still fixed on his, reading his face.

He must have known she was worried because he shifted and leaned toward her, lowering his voice to a gravelly purr.

"What," he teased, breezing past the concern on her face and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "A fella can't stop by unannounced and visit the love of his life at her new place of business?"

Buffy did roll her eyes now.

And that _so_ wasn't all.

Irked that he was obviously keeping something from her, she shook her head and turned her back on him.

"A fella can do whatever he wants," she said, focusing once again on her sticky table. She picked up the rag and started scrubbing again.

From behind her, Spike chuckled once like he knew what she was doing, probably rolling his eyes as well.

"C'mon now, Buffy, I just wanted to see you. Is that so wrong?" he asked. Then, his voice closer, a little huskier now, "And I may happen to have a bartender fantasy that you are playin' _right_ into."

Buffy ignored the flutter his words stirred in her stomach.

"Of course you do," she muttered instead, but her voice was all breathy.

Spike's hand found the low curve of her hip. "Raided Faith's closet I see."

She paused for just a second to enjoy the heat of his palm through the leather.

Then she smacked his hand away and turned back around.

"Believe it or not, no." Dropping the wet rag into her soapy water bucket, she gave him a saccharine smile. "These are mine."

Spike's nostrils flared. "Are they now?"

Another eye roll.

"Don't get any ideas," Buffy scolded, giving him a hard look even though she was sort of loving the lusty way he was staring at her now.

"Oh, but I have lots of them," he murmured, inching closer to her. Half boxing her in, he knew as well as she did that they were out of view of the main bar area, toward the back of the room and in close proximity to the stage.

"I'm sure," she breezed, smirking as she skirted around him. "And all likely centering around the idea of sex on a bar-height counter."

Spike's voice grew sultry as he followed her. "Now that you mention it."

She set her bucket down on top of the next empty table even though she'd already cleaned it. Pulling the rag out again she began wiping it down. Pretended not to be painfully aware of the bleached blonde hovering behind her or the heat of his gaze on the back of her neck.

He was enjoying this miniature version of cat and mouse they were playing as much as she was.

A long moment later and he'd moved in front of her, his hand covering hers and stilling the movement of the rag completely. She glanced up at him to find all traces of humor and wry, sparking sexuality gone, replaced by something so soft and so sweet that it nearly took her breath away.

She felt and watched as his eyes raked over her body one last time before finally settling on her face, and he leaned toward her.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, he told her, "All false brazenness aside, you look beautiful." He exhaled through his nose. "God, it's good to see you."

Everything in Buffy softened under his gaze. "You, too."

A long beat passed.

Then Spike suddenly stepped toward her, using his body to shield hers from the view of the bar. Not touching her, not quite, but close enough that Buffy could feel the thrum of his heartbeat and the heat of his bare forearms on either side of her as she looked up into his face.

 _Oh, hey again butterflies._

"What time are you off tonight?" he whispered.

She blushed and smiled."Eleven."

Spike checked his watch and growled. "Bloody hell."

Buffy laughed.

"It's only three more hours," she told him, smiling wider.

He looked up at her and dead panned, "The Grand Canyon's _only_ a crevice."

It was getting harder and harder to pretend that his insistence on spending time with her was bugging.

She tried anyway.

"Drama queen," she muttered, swiping her rag over the table one last time before dropping it in the bucket and setting it aside again; enjoying the grumpy expression and furrowed brow on her boyfriend's handsome face maybe a little too much in the process.

Spike frowned, pouting.

It shouldn't have worked as well as it did.

"Hey now, I've missed you. And I know you've missed me." Sensing her hesitance, he bit down on the swell of his lip and arched a brow. "You sure you can't duck out early?"

She stared back at him for a moment, biting her own lip. She wanted to. She really, _really_ wanted to. And the sexy smolder in his voice and the gleam in his eye so wasn't helping with the really, really wanting to.

But she couldn't. Even though it had been days...days...and even though the thought of slipping into a cab and heading straight back to her apartment sounded like the most brilliant idea in the history of all the ideas, she knew she couldn't.

"On my first night?" She shook her head and placed her palm on his chest, scooting him to the side so she could step around. "Yeah, that'll go over real well with my shift manager."

Spike frowned genuinely and moved to follow her, narrowing his eyes. "Who's...also your roommate?"

"So?" Buffy asked over her shoulder, stopping to greet one of the bar's regulars that she'd met earlier in the week as she went. "Responsibilities are responsibilities."

She heard him bark a bright laugh from behind her and knew instantly she'd chosen the wrong words. Her eyes fluttered shut for a half second at that, her grip on the bucket tightening as she bit her tongue. Smiling brightly at another table of more rowdy looking customers, she composed herself again and made her way over to the bar.

"I just have to be able to make rent this month," she finally managed, dropping the bucket along the backside of the bar and turning around. "Don't look at me like that."

He was staring at her like he'd heard it all before and was as unimpressed and unmoved by it now as he'd been the first time around. One hand on the bar top, the other squared on his hip, he pursed his lips and hollowed his cheeks, leveling the full weight of that devastating blue gaze on her.

Which was far from fair.

Buffy crossed her arms and looked away, scanning the growing crowd through the haze as Lindsey tuned his guitar in the far corner. She sighed and told him, "I know you're not thrilled about it, but this is my job, Spike."

"A job you didn't have to take," he told her, pretense gone.

Her eyes shot back to his again, wide now. "And we are _so_ not having this conversation again."

Not that they would have been able to have any kind of conversation just then, because Faith had noticed them standing at the far end of the bar and had already started meandering over.

"Well look who it is," the brunette came to a stop beside Buffy, slapping a hand down flat on the bar top with a grin, "old Silver Fox himself."

"Faith," Spike hummed, offering her a tight but cordial smile. Annoyed. "How are you?"

Faith just grinned wider at his obvious irritation.

"Oh, ya know, can't complain. Or I can, but I won't." She settled back, leaning her hip into the bar and folding her arms over her cropped band t-shirt. She raised an arched brow. "So did you come by just to see our girl or were you planning to actually order something?"

The muscle in Spike's jaw ticked once and Buffy frowned, brow furrowing.

"Bit of both," he said tightly, twisting the thick silver ring on his middle finger twice before adding, "But I can push off if my bein' here is a problem."

Buffy frowned more deeply.

"No way," Faith breezed, still smiling even in the face of the icy reception she was getting. "Stick around as long as you like, make goo-goo eyes at B all night, whatever. Fine by me." She dropped her arms and moved to step around Buffy, pausing just in front of Spike with a sly smile to add, "Just order something while you're at it."

And then she was gone, shouting loudly to a large table of customers and earning a rowdy cheer in return, leaving the blonde pair alone beside the bar.

Spike's eyes were still fixated on the bubbling brunette, narrowed as he watched her travel across the pub. Buffy stared at him for another half second, feeling completely lost, until it suddenly snapped to attention and she put two and two together.

"You can't take it out on Faith just because you don't like me working here," she chided, annoyed.

He turned back to face her in an instant, defensive.

"I'm not," he said quickly, dismissive, then paused. Pouted. "Why not?"

Ignoring the fact that he looked just as painfully handsome imitating a toddler as he did doing just about anything else, Buffy exhaled through her nose and reminded him, "Because Faith was doing a _nice_ thing by getting me a job here when she knew I needed one."

So there. She'd made her point, and could tell by the furrowed brow on Spike's face that it was a good one.

"I know," he grumbled, casting a sidelong glance back toward the rowdy table Faith was getting drink orders from.

"And it's pretty good money," Buffy added, piling on. "And pretty good people. And lots of flexibility," her eyes widened, "which I need. For job interviews."

"I know that, too," Spike sighed as he turned back around, hesitant but meaning it. His eyes were soft and sweet on hers as he added reluctantly, "I just worry is all."

Buffy nodded. "I know."

"I only worry because I love you," he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder once more. Still looking like he was less than thrilled by the growing crowd behind them and the obvious drunken antics of some of the more…colorful customers.

She just smiled at him. "I know that, too."

"Good," he said, turning to face her and settling into his seat. Then, "And if any of these miserable sods lays so much as a sodding _eyeball_ on you, I swear to God—"

"You'll tear them apart with your bare hands?" Buffy finished for him with a tilt of her head.

Spike made a face at her, a flash of bright amusement in his eyes.

"Limb from bloody limb," he agreed.

"Noted," she said, still smiling. Then, glancing toward the other end of the long bar and the now single bartender behind it, at the growing line of people bellying up to give their orders, she added, "but if you're gonna stick around you probably should order something."

She watched as a drunken patron knocked over another customer's fresh beer, spilling it all over the counter and all over Sam, the other bartender.

Buffy frowned and turned back to Spike. "I think I'm needed behind the bar."

Spike's eyes weren't on the mess at the bar, and they weren't on her face, either. They were down, focused on the glowing screen of his cell phone as it vibrated in his hand. The number was one Buffy didn't recognize right away.

"Probably should take this," he muttered, voice flat. He looked up at her and leaned forward, kissing her right there in full view of the smoky bar, his lips full on hers without a second of hesitation. Like it was nothing. "Be right back."

Buffy stood for a minute and watched as he walked away, pressing the phone up to his ear as he slipped out the open front door and out onto the sidewalk. Her lips tingled where they'd touched his, and she felt her cheeks grow warm despite the niggling anxiousness she was beginning to get in her tummy.

Something wasn't right. He was trying to hide it with glittering eyes and suggestive comments, but _something_ wasn't right.

Frowning in the direction he'd just gone, Buffy wondered again what had happened at his meeting earlier that day. Why it had ended so much earlier than they'd expected.

What that meant.

"So that's him, huh?"

Buffy jumped and spun around, blinking wide eyes at Lindsey as he slung the strap of his guitar over his shoulder. "That's him who?"

Lindsey gave her a lopsided grin. "The guy you were wishing you were with the whole night you were out with me." He jutted his chin in the direction Spike had just gone and added, "That's him."

Buffy stared at the man in front of her for a moment, biting her lip. Feeling equal parts embarrassed and sorry as she realized how painfully clear it must have been to him all those months ago that she was thinking of someone else the whole time.

"Lindsey," she began, taking a deep breath to apologize. "Listen, I—"

But he held a hand up to stop her, wry smile still on his lips as he shook his head.

"It's really okay," he chuckled, at the very least sounding like he meant it. "Only asked 'cause I'm curious. Is that him?"

Buffy inhaled through her nose and sighed, nodded once, glancing back over her shoulder. She could see the bleached blonde they were discussing standing just outside the open doorway, one hand in his jeans pocket and his head bowed, still on the phone.

"Spike," she said slowly, turning back around. Her cheeks were all warm. "Yeah, that's him."

Lindsey looked over in the direction of the door, narrowing his eyes a little and nodding as he murmured, "Okay then." His eyes shot back to hers, eyebrows raised. "He a good guy?"

Buffy smiled, still blushing. "The best."

"Good," he said, again sounding like he meant it. "Glad to see that things seem to be working out for the two of you."

She smiled again, a little wider, fighting the urge to ask out loud _they do_ seem _to be, don't they?_

"Thanks," she said instead, feeling awkward again, reaching back and slipping her hands into the back pockets of her pants. She gestured toward the guitar and asked, "What's on the set list for tonight?"

"Oh, you know. The usual." He looked down and tuned his guitar, shrugging his shoulders. "Thought I'd play a little _Dust in the Wind_ , just for you."

He looked up and grinned again, winking at her, chuckling when she shoved him lightly in the shoulder. Then he bowed his head in that subtle, Texas way of his and turned, heading through the crowd and making his way over to the "stage".

He'd just sat down on the stool, strummed a couple chords, and was getting ready to start his set when Buffy heard the familiar growl from behind her.

"And who the bloody hell was that?"

She turned around to face him, hands still tucked in her pockets as she surveyed the sour expression on his pretty face.

"That was Lindsey," Buffy told him, maneuvering around his shoulder and stepping back behind the bar. She tightened the little black apron around her waist and glanced up at her boyfriend, amused by the pinched look on his face.

"Lindsey," he repeated, eyes fixed now on the musician on the stage. "Wait, wait." He turned around to face her, bracing his hands on the bar top and leaning forward, raising his voice to be heard over the live music. "Fella you went out on a date with just to make me jealous, _Lindsey_?"

Buffy made a face at him, cheeks flushing. Annoyed that both men had so obviously seen through her.

"I didn't go out with him just to make you jealous," she lied, looking away. Busying herself with the large knife and the limes on the cutting board in front of her, she started cutting them into wedges, tossing them into the plastic container on the bar.

"Of course you did," Spike countered, certain.

Smug.

"I…" she began again, the denial dying on her lips as soon as she looked up and saw the soft and very pleased expression on his face. She sighed and turned back to the limes. "It wasn't _just_ to make you jealous."

"Mmhm," Spike murmured, sounding like he didn't believe her. He leaned forward. "Well whatever the reason, it worked. Made me crazy, sitting 'round on my hands all night, thinking about you bein' out with…" He turned toward the stage and trailed off before swiveling back to look at her. " _Really_?"

She tossed a lime wedge into the plastic container and flicked her gaze to his. "His hair wasn't that long a few months ago."

Spike reached across the bar and grabbed the same wedge she'd just tossed out of the container. "Did he still have the goatee?"

Buffy set the knife down and watched as he bit into it. Smirked. Waggled his eyebrows.

And she was totally and completely charmed.

She laughed and shook her head, scooping the rest of the limes up and tossing them into the container, snapping the plastic lid in place before sliding them back beneath the bar. She slid a cocktail napkin over for Spike to set the now juice-less lime wedge onto. He dropped it and dusted off his hands, turning his head once more toward the stage. Lindsey was mid-song now, some ultra-country, twangy thing that Buffy didn't really mind but that Spike was clearly not a fan of.

"What's he doin' here anyway?" he asked, brow furrowed.

As if it weren't totally obvious.

"He _works_ here," Buffy dead panned, wiping up the errant lime juice and tucking the rag into her apron, bracing both hands on the bar top to lean toward him. "And so do I, which reminds me...only paying customers are allowed to sit at the bar."

Spike turned back toward her, scarred eyebrow raised.

She shrugged. "I don't make the rules."

He narrowed his eyes at her but reached to fish his wallet out of his back pocket.

"You're enjoying this far more than you should be," he told her, dropping a crisp fifty dollar bill down on the bar top and sliding it toward her.

The curve of his mouth told her he was enjoying it quite a bit himself.

"I live for the little things now." She took the bill from him, eyeing it warily. Fifty was a little much. "You looking for the top shelf stuff, or….?"

"No," Spike corrected, swiveling his stool around to face the line of men that were queued up beside him, waiting to place their orders with Buffy. He clapped a friendly hand on the nearest one's shoulder. "Buyin' these fellas a round of drinks so they'll go back to their seats and leave me alone with the pretty bartender."

Five beers, two whiskey sodas, and a rum and coke later, Spike was left with one dollar from his original fifty and Buffy was left with only one customer on her end of the bar.

"Now," she said, taking the leftover dollar and sliding it back to him. "What can I get for you?"

He gave her a little smirk and an eye flash but bit back on the obvious response.

He took the single dollar and replaced it with a five. "Surprise me."

Buffy took the money and placed it in the register, scooping out his change and shutting the drawer again.

"Okay," she teased, dropping the fifty cents into his waiting hand. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

They smiled at each other as Lindsey started up a new song; a slow, honeyed Irish folk song that she'd heard him play once or twice before.

Truthfully, she couldn't understand half the words, but the melody was nice.

She started to work on making Spike a drink, highly aware of his eyes on her hands as she did. He was quiet for a long moment as he watched her, as he listened to the crowd's muffled chatter, to the music over that. When she risked a glance up at him, he looked very tired.

There were lines around his eyes and shadows beneath them she hadn't noticed before.

"Spike," she said, as softly as the ambient noise around them would allow.

His gaze shot back to hers. "Hmm?"

He was on his best behavior again, the relaxed mask he'd had on since setting foot inside the bar falling back in place as he looked at her. She could see it for what it was now though, and it made her stomach knot a little.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, slipping the bottle in her hand back into its spot along the back of the bar.

He wasn't going to tell her the truth, but she had to at least ask.

"'Course it is," Spike replied dismissively, smiling up at her again. "I'm with you."

But the smile didn't quite reach the tired eyes, and she knew for certain now that something was wrong.

Unconvinced, but unwilling to press him any further at the moment, she slid the neat double whiskey she'd poured for him onto the bar top. "If you say so."

He reached out and covered her hand with his before she could pull away.

"Everything's always fine when I'm with you," he told her, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand.

And God, when he looked at her that way she almost did believe it.

"So," he said suddenly, letting go over her hand and shifting back on his stool with a sly grin, "mooning country bumpkin aside, how have things gone here this week?"

 _Nice subject change._

Buffy arched a brow but didn't say anything. And he thought _she_ was the avoidy one?

"So far, so good." She shrugged, glancing out over the crowd. It had grown considerably over the last 30 minutes, but it seemed to be a less rowdy group. "It's only been a few hours of actual work. Training earlier this week was the hard part, and I'm still mostly just trying to figure out which bottle is which."

That made Spike laugh.

"Yeah?" he teased, eyes twinkling through the smoke as he reached for the bowl of peanuts on the bar. "Difficult, is it?"

"They're all brown," Buffy defended herself, planting one hand on her hip and gesturing with the other. "And they're all named after men."

"I'm well acquainted with most of 'em," he agreed, chuckling to himself as he finished off the handful of nuts. He sobered a little then, searching her face, the music behind them changing again to something more classic rock-ish. "But you're happy here? You like it?"

He was worried about her.

It was why he'd asked her not to take the job when Faith had offered it in the first place.

He still felt guilty for the fact that she'd had to leave Pratt, and he was manifesting that guilt in concern and over-protectiveness and worry that she wasn't happy, or that she'd maybe grow to resent him. She knew all of that because he'd told her all of that. A couple weeks back at Henry's house, sitting around the pool on a sunny Saturday afternoon, he'd had one too many beers and had told her his worst fear; that she'd never be able to forgive him. That the position he felt he'd manipulated her into and the mistakes he'd felt he'd forced her to make would follow her from job to job, and that she'd never be able to forgive him for it.

It was insane, or at least Buffy knew it was insane, though she hadn't blamed him for worrying or for feeling that way because she of all people knew the constant, looming fear of being resented by the person you loved. She'd understood the fear, no matter how unfounded it was.

But sooner or later he'd have to accept the fact that she didn't blame him and find a way to quit blaming himself.

"Yeah," she told now, trying for a reassuring smile. She shrugged. "I mean, it's not the dream or anything. But it's a job, and I need the money, so…" She trailed off at the pained expression on his face, clearing her throat and saying instead, "It's just a for now kinda thing. Not forever."

Spike inhaled deeply through his nose, nodded, then exhaled again. "Okay."

Relieved, Buffy agreed, "Okay."

She watched as he leaned forward, fingering the lip of his glass and spinning it in slow half circles on the bar top. His eyes were down on the liquid inside, watching it slosh around. Quiet. Thinking.

He still looked so worn down.

Buffy turned her attention away from him just long enough to grab another round of beers for the guys who'd been up at the bar before, smiling and thanking them for the generous tip they left her this time around, and when she turned back to her boyfriend he was watching her again. Eyes fixed to her face, a soft, almost troubled expression on his face.

She frowned. "What?"

"I understand why it is you took this job, you know," he said, not answering her question. Still looking at her like he was half in total awe and half incredibly frustrated. "Why you felt you _needed_ to take this job. I get it, even though I know you don't think I do." His eyes dropped to the contents of his glass again. "Can honestly say I've never admired anyone so much in my life, stubborn bint that you are."

Her stomach did that thing, that singularly Spike-induced thing, where it tightened and flipped in the most pleasant way. The knots from earlier loosened and she felt that sweet, comfortably uncomfortable melting feeling she so often got when he looked at her that way. Like she was the only thing he could see. Like she was the most wonderful and annoying and maddening and perfect thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

A little like he wanted to kiss her and kill her all at once.

"Thank you," she said, meaning it. Then, "But you kind of hate this place?"

"I really do," Spike agreed on a sigh, his shoulders slouching as he did. He shot a hand out toward the entrance to the bar. "The front door opens right into the bloody alleyway, for Christ's sake."

It was true, it did. Not that the part of town they were in was a particularly bad part of town, because it wasn't. Not by a long shot.

But she saw his point.

"I think I can handle myself," she promised, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. "Besides, Faith said she almost never has to actually _use_ her pepper spray."

Spike was unamused.

"You're adorable when you try and ruffle my feathers," he muttered, lifting his glass to his lips and draining the remainder of the whiskey inside. He set it down with more force than necessary, the smack of glass on wood drowned out by the music and the crowing of the crowd.

"You want another?" she asked, already reaching for the bottle of whiskey.

He nodded. "Please."

She poured him one. He downed half of it in one gulp and set the glass back down. Stared into it for a minute. Then looked up at her and asked, "Any regrets yet?"

And Buffy meant it when she topped off his drink and told him soberly, "Not one."

 _ **-Tuesday, October 15th. 7:32pm-**_

Spike was digging his hand around in the bottom of the popcorn bowl, making too much noise and not paying any attention to the movie on the flat screen in front of them.

He turned and frowned into the bowl. "Did you eat the last of the M&Ms?"

"Probably," Buffy murmured, casting a sidelong glance at the bleached blonde seated beside her. By the expression on his face she could tell she'd done something wrong, she just wasn't sure exactly what. "Why?"

Spike leaned forward and set the bowl down on the coffee table.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he said slowly, mock-irritated. "But I thought you didn't _like_ M &Ms with popcorn?"

She looked at him for a minute, then shrugged.

"I don't." Buffy shifted forward and delved back into the popcorn bowl, hardly searching at all before coming away with one of the little chocolates. "I just like the M&Ms."

Spike's lashes fluttered when their eyes met again, his lips twitching just a little. He wanted to laugh, she could tell, but he was trying desperately not to. The only thing that really gave him away was the flexing of his jaw, the tiny wrinkles at the corners of both eyes.

She was happy to see him laughing, or even almost laughing, whether it was at her expense or not. He'd been so stressed out lately with the stuff going on at Pratt that she'd hardly seen him, and when she had seen him, he'd been exhausted. He wouldn't tell her everything that was going on, but she knew it was Cecily. He didn't have to tell her that for her to just know it. Drusilla had mentioned it once, too. That Cecily was doing everything she could to get the most of her last few weeks of control over Spike's life.

It enraged Buffy, but it was also almost over. It had to be almost over.

"This is what life's goin' to be like from now on then?" Spike asked Buffy now, the chuckle in his voice betraying him just the tiniest bit. "You picking all the chocolates out of the popcorn?"

"The trail mix, too," she added, popping the last M&M into her mouth. She swallowed, smiled, asked him, "Any regrets yet?"

And with the subtle implication of the word, the idea-a bright, blinking _forever_ -fusing the air between them, he pressed her back down to the sofa and made love to her for the first time in over a week, knocking the popcorn bowl to the floor in the process.

 **-Wednesday, October 23rd. 5:59pm.-**

Buffy was standing in his kitchen, mid-refrigerator raid, when Spike entered his condo.

"Hey," she said, maneuvering her way around a six pack of beer and back to the bowl of fresh grapes she'd stashed there the day before.

"Hey," he echoed, then paused. Frowned. "What are you doin' here?"

Buffy leaned out of the fridge to look at him, frowning back. She'd sort of been under the impression that the key he'd given her was meant to be used, not just a shiny new accessory for her key chain.

Can of diet soda in one hand and bowl of grapes in the other, she shut the door to his fridge and turned to face him. "Should I not be here?"

Spike's eyes traveled from her face down to the items in each hand, then back up. He smirked and shook his head. Stepping past the kitchen and on into the living room, he told her, "You should always be here, just wasn't expectin' to see you so soon is all." He stopped beside the closest leather chair to set his briefcase down and loosened his tie. "You finish early in Hartford?"

Buffy's fingers grew heavy and she set the bowl of grapes down on the counter with a thud.

Hartford, right.

The interview.

The big one Henry'd organized for her three weeks ago. The one she'd been preparing for since he'd organized it for her three weeks ago. The thing she'd come over here to tell Spike about, though now that he was here she wasn't so sure she really wanted to tell him about it.

Was it too late to change the subject?

"Uh, yeah," Buffy said slowly, looking down. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Kind of."

But Spike had already read her like one of his colorfully-spined books.

He stood up straight again. "What happened?"

"Happened?" she echoed, flicking her gaze up to find him eyeing her expectantly. "Nothing happened."

He arched a brow.

The countertop between them no longer seemed like a large enough buffer.

Sighing, Buffy set her soda can down on the cool marble. "How do you always _do_ that?"

"It helps that you're not terribly difficult to read," he told her gently, lips twitching into a small smile. He rested his hip along the backside of the wingback chair and crossed his arms. "And you're home early lookin' a little like someone stole your pony so it wasn't exactly a leap. Wanna tell me what happened?"

She looked at him quietly for a moment before dropping her eyes to the countertop.

"Not really," she whispered.

She felt Spike freeze where he was resting in front of her, could practically feel the muscles tightening across his shoulders as his eyes focused in on the top of her head.

When she didn't volunteer any more information, he cleared his throat. Asked pointedly, "Did something go wrong with the interview, Buffy?"

"No." She tapped the top of the soda can with her nail. Once. Twice. Inhaled deeply through her nose. "I just kinda…didn't go."

When he didn't answer right away she risked a glance up and immediately wished she hadn't.

Azure eyes hard, his jaw tensed and flexing, he was looking at her in a way he hadn't since some of their very first meetings in his office.

Gaze fixed on her, he spoke in a low voice. "You didn't go."

She stared at him for a long minute before looking away again. "No."

This time, his reaction was instantaneous.

"What do you mean you didn't go?" he shouted, getting to his feet.

Buffy snapped her head up and took an involuntary step back, feeling her eyes go wide. She wasn't surprised that he was upset, she'd known he would be, but this reaction seemed a lot more than just disappointed. Zero to one hundred in two seconds flat.

She blinked at him, still stunned. "Don't yell at me."

"Well, Jesus Christ, Buffy," he growled, fighting hard to lower his voice. He was off the back of the chair now and already walking toward the counter. "This is the second bloody interview you've skipped out on in as many weeks."

"I know." She looked back down at her diet soda.

He paused to think about that for a minute, shaking his head. Muscles still tensed. He looked away and reached a hand up to run it through his hair then turned his back on her. His temper just barely controlled, his shoulders high and tight, he took a few deep breaths.

"You'll never get another job if you keep blowin' these interviews off," he told her, voice still low and thick.

Buffy looked up again, nodding even though he couldn't see her. "I know _._ "

Because she did.

"Then what the bloody hell is _wrong_ with you?" Spike yelled, whirling back around to face her.

Everything screeched to a sudden halt.

Suddenly furious, she was no longer worried about him being disappointed. Her eyes were blazing. The air grew very still around them as Buffy froze in place, staring at him. And he stared right back, just as angry, unrelenting. With barely three feet of physical space between them, there had never seemed to be so much actual distance.

She might as well have been half way across the country for how alone she suddenly felt.

"Hey," she said slowly, her expression growing hard. "Don't talk to me like that. You don't know—"

"Do _you_ know how hard it was to get you this interview?" he cut her off, exasperated.

His eyes had grown almost comically wide while she'd been talking, like he couldn't believe she had the nerve to tell him he didn't know how she felt.

Buffy shook her head and shouldered past him. "I'm done talking about this."

She headed toward the chair she'd dumped her overnight bag on earlier, wanting nothing more than to get away from him. From the hollow way he was looking at her.

"Well that's too bloody bad, because this isn't just about you," Spike told her, turning to watch her as she went by. "Back Bay is a very highly thought of publisher. Henry had to pull a lot of strings just to get them to agree to—"

It was her turn to whirl on him this time.

"You don't think I know that?" she shouted, cutting him off.

Spike raised his eyebrows, his hands on his hips. "Judging by the way you're acting?"

And with that, the air was officially so tense she thought it might actually shatter into pieces all around them.

She stood very still for a little while and just looked at him, her eyes starting to burn. His words had hurt her, his _meaning_ had hurt her, and he knew it. She could see it on his face now as he looked at her, still unrelenting in his anger even if she could see he was sorry for what he'd said. Or maybe just for the choice of words.

Either way.

Buffy scoffed, shaking her head once.  
"And how am I acting?" she challenged, folding her arms tight across her chest.

Spike didn't answer her question. Not that he needed to. The phrase "like a child" might as well have been etched across his forehead for the way he was looking at her now. And as if realizing that himself, he shifted back onto his heels and dropped his gaze down to the floor, one hand stuffed in his pocket.

Frustrated and hurt, feeling a little sick to her stomach, Buffy grabbed her bag up off the chair and threw the strap over her shoulder, headed toward the front door.

Spike looked up again as she went. "Where are you going?"

He sounded surprised.

"Home," Buffy said, stopping to look at him over her shoulder. She pulled the strap of her bag tighter. "I didn't come over here because I had a burning desire to be yelled at, and especially not by you."  
In the flash of his gaze she could tell her words had cut him, too, but she was having a hard time caring. Confused rage was blinding that way.

She turned to leave again but Spike was already there, catching her by the wrist before she could get even two steps toward the door.

"What the bloody hell does that mean, _especially_ not by me?" he asked, eyes blazing hot and cold all at once. His grip on her wrist wasn't painful by any means, but it was tighter than necessary, and it didn't go unnoticed by either of them.

Buffy stopped where she was and tore her gaze from his. Glanced down, eyes focused on the long, strong fingers wrapped around her. Only then did she stop long enough to think about it. About their fight, about what she'd said to him, and how it had sounded.

What he must have thought she meant.

Still frustrated, still hurt, still unbelievably mad about the way he'd been speaking to her, she closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled a deep, shaky breath. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how did you mean it?" Spike pressed, and she was surprised that his voice was no longer angry, but pleading.

Buffy swallowed, her eyes hot and stinging again as she continued to stare down at his hand around her wrist. Her cheeks were hot too, a strange mix of embarrassment and vanishing anger that she honestly wasn't sure who to direct at. Spike for not understanding, herself for not explaining better, both of them a little bit for making such impulsive decisions.

For having such quick tempers.

It was all worth it, she knew. Being with him would be worth everything in the end.

But she was still hurting, and it was still hard. Not having a real job, not having the money she needed, not seeing Spike for days on end and not being able to help or lift any of the burden he was carrying. Most of all, not being able to talk to him about it for fear of making him feel guiltier than he did already.

It was all so _hard_.

Not harder than she'd imagined it would be, but there was something so different, so solitary, about the hard of reality compared to the hard of potential. Everything about the reality they were living currently was bright and harsh and real, and even though Buffy liked her job and she had good friends and God knew she loved Spike, she'd never felt more alone in her life than she had the past few weeks.

She'd known that it wouldn't be easy, that they would be facing a hundred different challenges. She just hadn't realized they'd be doing it so separately.

And how to make him understand that, really understand it, without also making him feel guilty or like he was the one to blame...well, honestly, Buffy hadn't figured out how to do that yet. She'd come close to telling him a couple times before but hadn't. He'd had enough on his plate as it was; his own stressors, his own soon-to-be-ex wife. Not adding to that stress had seemed like priority numero uno.

Now, though, not screaming at each other over a stupid, simple miscommunication seemed more important.

"You don't understand what things are like for me right now," she told him, voice soft, hesitant to meet his eyes again. She was ashamed and exhausted and worried he'd be able to see all of that on her face if she did.

"Then make me understand, luv." Spike's grip slid down from her wrist to her hand, fingers threading through hers as he tugged her fully around to face him. He frowned and forced her to look up, azure eyes scanning her face. "You were _ready_ , you've been prepping for this interview for two weeks. Why would you just not go?"

Buffy exhaled a long, slow sigh and gently pulled away from him.

"I didn't just not go," she said, stepping around him to walk back toward the living room. "That's my point. I went. I was there. I was in the stupid, beautiful building just standing there, staring at the buttons on the elevator and feeling completely and totally unequipped and I...I don't know." She dropped her bag and faced him, eyes on his and her arms crossed over her chest. She shrugged. "I just couldn't do it. Not again."

Spike frowned, his brows drawn and his eyes narrowed; equal parts irritated and concerned. "Do _what_?"

" _This_ ," Buffy snapped, throwing her arms down again. "This job, these interviews. Feeling like the only way I can make it in this industry anymore is by borrowing off other people's credit."

His brow smoothed over in an instant as he seemed to understand, his eyes softening, growing warmer.

"Off _my_ credit, you mean."

The pity in his voice made her skin tighten.

" _No_ , I mean…" she trailed off, shaking her head and closing her eyes. She thought about the words she wanted to say before saying them, then opened her eyes again. "I mean, that every time I go to one of these interviews that you or Henry have set up it always goes the same way. I walk in, I freeze, they ask me a couple courtesy questions and then it's over. I feel like I'm just _there_ ," she gestured toward him with her hand for emphasis, "like I'm just a favor being done. A courtesy to an old friend, or whatever. And it isn't that I don't appreciate you and Henry helping me," she added quickly, searching Spike's eyes with her own. Meaning it. "Because I do. I so, _so_ , do."

"Then what is it?" he pushed her, no longer irritated. All of the ire from before had faded and he looked now like a man who was simply desperate to make the woman he loved happy, which was harder in some ways than the rage had been.

Buffy shrugged once more, having to tear her gaze from his in order for her to admit it. "I'm just getting tired of feeling like a charity case."

He didn't say anything right away but stood quietly staring at her for a long moment. Then he turned, crossed the room to the bookshelf. Trailed his fingertips along the spines of the brightly colored books there. Buffy didn't say anything, either. She didn't even move, just watched him from where she stood as he wrapped his hand around a book and plucked it from the shelf, letting it fall open in his palm.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "About earlier, I shouldn't…" He paused and looked over at her, his expression haunted. "I should never speak to you like that."

Buffy swallowed, a massive lump in her throat that definitely hadn't been there a minute before. "It's fine."

She started to inch toward him.

Spike laughed once, a low, harsh chuckle that stopped her movements abruptly. He looked down again.

There was a twisted, hollow smile on his lips.

"It's far from fine, luv." He closed his eyes, the little smile slipping. "After everything I've put you through."

The lump got bigger.

"It's fine," she told him again, moving again to cross the distance between them. Desperate now to touch him, to be close to him, again. " _I'm_ fine, I promise."

God, why did it sound so much like it wasn't the whole truth?

"I know you're fine." Spike opened his eyes but kept them down on the pages in his hand. "I know that you're more than capable of taking care of yourself. I've never once said or thought or worried that you couldn't. This has nothing to do with me not thinking you're capable." He snapped the book shut and shoved it back in its place on the shelf. "I don't arrange interviews for you out of _charity_ , Buffy."

And when he turned his eyes back to her, she saw it. A distant ache, subtly layered and hidden for her benefit; that ever-present, weighing guilt that had seemed to surround him so often over the last month and a half.

And she realized exactly why he'd gotten so angry before.

All the anger she'd felt before completely disappeared, replaced with a single-minded need to soothe the ache and banish the distant look in his eyes.

"Spike," Buffy said slowly, shaking her head. She was still approaching him. "You can't keep doing this, okay? You have _got_ to stop—"

"Blaming myself?" He asked, filling in the blank for her. "I know. I _can't_. I love you." He looked away again. "And I see you struggle and you see you frustrated and I see you... _giving up_ , and it kills me because I know it's my fault."

"No," she said suddenly, her voice fierce now as she reached him and put her hands on his face. "No, it's not."

"Buffy…" he began, but stopped when she just shook her head; when he saw the stern look in her eyes.

"I have never thought that," she told him, her voice steady. Strong. "Not once. We both made decisions that landed us here, Spike. It was a choice that _we_ made. And yeah, things...are kind of sucky right now, but that doesn't mean they won't get better."

Spike didn't say anything for a moment. He barely even blinked. His eyes were focused, bright and blue and laser sharp on hers as he searched them, looking for any sign that she might not be telling him the truth. Looking for any hint of resentment or disappointment or bitterness.

He didn't find any.

She knew he wouldn't.

Taking hold of her hands, he pulled them gently from his face and lowered them, entangling his fingers with hers.

He smiled a little. "You had a very different take on things not five minutes ago."

Buffy shrugged, glad for the levity.

"I'm frustrated and grumpy and have been working double shifts all week." She tilted her head to the side and gave him a wry smile. "Sue me."

Spike chuckled.

Buffy squeezed his hands.

"Being frustrated and grumpy doesn't mean I'm giving up, though," she told him, choosing her words very specifically. "We didn't come this far to give up."

He leaned forward and kissed her then, hooking an index finger beneath her chin to hold her lips against his. She kissed him back, reaching her own hand up and around to cup the back of his neck and pull him closer.

When he finally pulled away, he smiled, brushing the tip of her nose with his. "How'd you get so bloody smart?"

"I love you," was all she said in response.

"I love you," he said back, brushing his thumbs in little circles over the backs of her hands. His eyes dropped. "Sometimes I'd just like to be able to help, that's all."

She frowned at him, a tinge of irritation resurfacing.

"You do help," she insisted, amazed that he somehow couldn't see that already. "In every single way that matters, you help."

But he didn't think so, she could see it on his face. He released her hands and stepped away, and she watched as he turned back toward the bookshelf, shaking his head.

"It's not enough," he said, more to himself than to her.

It killed her to hear him say it out loud. After everything he'd done, everything he'd given up to be with her, how he could still think that...it struck her somewhere deep, somewhere chemical, down in her bones.

"It's more than enough," Buffy insisted again, feeling like the words were strangely inadequate even though they were unequivocally true.

There was a short pause.

Then Spike turned to face her again. "Move in with me."

"No," she said, stepping backward.

It was an immediate response, on impulse. Total knee jerk reaction.

Which Spike must have known, because he just laughed. "You aren't even going to _pretend_ to think about it?"

"Sorry, I-I didn't mean no as in _no_ , I just meant…" she trailed off. Shut her eyes, opened them again. "Move in with you?"

"Move in with me," he repeated with total certainty, stepping closer to her. "Please."

He said the word like he was stroking a hand down her back.

Buffy frowned, shaking her head. Not an answer, not a _no_ , but just to get her bearings.

Glancing around the condo, she asked, "Where?" To Spike. "Here?"

"Here," he agreed, grinning at her, "or anywhere really. I have a flat over near Beacon Hill that's been gathering dust for ages. Or the townhouse in Cambridge?" Buffy's eyes went wide. _What townhouse in Cambridge?_ "It'd be a little bit of a commute into the city but since neither of us'll be working at Pratt that might not matter as much. Or we could—"

"Wait, wait," Buffy told him, putting her hand against his chest. "Just…give me a second."

He paused and looked down at her, brows knitting together as he read her expression. He cocked a brow. "Oh, don't tell me... _this_ is too fast for you?"

And she actually laughed.

"No." She shook her head, a little surprised herself by how true it was. "No, it's not. The moving in part isn't, anyway." She pulled her hand from his chest. "I didn't know you had so much hidden real estate."

"Just two," he said, then moved closer to her. "But the moving in bit…?"

She wet her lip and bit it. "I don't know. I mean…I guess it would be the next step in terms of the steps we're taking. And it would…make sense, generally speaking."

"I'm nothing if not practical," he murmured, his eyes on her face.

She thought about it for a minute. Thought about what moving in together would mean, how...permanent it would make everything feel. How much easier and how much harder it would make things. She'd save money, that was true. And she wouldn't have anymore weeks where she'd go days on end without seeing him. No more packing overnight bags or leaving things at his place or never having enough time to actually be together.

It would be wonderful, yeah, but it would also be a big change. A very big change. The dynamic of their relationship would shift dramatically. It would be hard.

But the hard was what made it worth it.

"I'll need to talk to Faith," she said finally.

"Of course," Spike agreed, moving closer still.

"And I'll probably have to sell some of my stuff," she added, glancing around the condo again. "It won't all fit."

He nodded and took another step. "We can always store it."

There was one final, very long pause as the pair stood in the living room and stared at each other.

Then Buffy nodded. "Okay."

"Okay," Spike echoed, a slow, dimpled smile spreading across his lips.

"Okay," she said again, the word tumbling out on a peel of laughter as Spike stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and hoisting her up so she had no choice but to wrap her arms around his neck. No choice but to kiss him back when he kissed her. No choice but to wind her legs around his waist and let him carry her up the metal stairs and into the bedroom.

Their bedroom.

 _ **-Monday, October 28th. 7:16am-**_

Spike was already gone by the time Buffy woke up.

Not surprising. He'd been going into the office earlier and earlier every week, trying to stay ahead of his deadlines and finishing all the HR paperwork he still needed to file, the documents he had to sign. There a lot of silly things, mostly. A lot of "I promise not to steal your people when I leave". Cecily's lawyers enjoyed putting him through their hoops almost as much as their client did, and with things so close now to finally being _final_ , it was only getting worse.

It had only taken them the weekend to move Buffy's meager set of belongings and sizeable amount of clothing from Faith's apartment over to Spike's condo, since most of what was in her bedroom at Faith's had been there before she'd arrived in the first place. None of the furniture was hers, aside from the mattress, and rather than let her sell it Spike had insisted on storing it for her. When she'd asked where, he'd simply shrugged and said he knew someone who'd be happy to keep it for her while they got everything else situated.

She hadn't asked questions.

It had only taken Faith the weekend to scrounge up another roommate, although it wasn't like she'd had to look very far. And even though Lindsey wouldn't be nearly as fun to live with as Buffy had been, Faith assured her, there was something about the idea of living with a man that seemed to...interest the brunette. And as long as the other girl was happy, Buffy didn't feel the need or want to ask questions there, either.

For the most part, though, the transition had gone smoothly, and apart from still not being used to the fact that she now officially lived with a boy, Buffy couldn't see a reason to complain.

She lay in bed for a little while before finally forcing herself up, swinging her legs over the mattress and eyeing all the boxes still left to be unpacked. Not many, but enough to warrant her making a face as she realized the bulk of her day would be spent folding clothes, making space in the closet, and finding ways to make the condo feel a little more co-habitable.

It still had that distinct bachelor-pad vibe to it.

She plucked her robe off the floor and shrugged into it, yawning as she descended the spiral staircase and padded into the kitchen. Glanced around.

It was funny, how different the condo suddenly looked to her now that she knew she lived there, too. Her eyes traveled across the counter, spotting items that were hers scattered here and there. They weren't placed in any particular way, or even in any sensical way, so it was fairly obvious to Buffy that Spike had gone through some of her kitchen boxes that morning before he'd left and pulled out some of her things.

An effort to make her feel more at ease, she was sure.

She smiled as she imagined it, thinking of him muttering little British curse words to himself as he tried to pull the tape off without waking her, and crossed the small space to the corner where his fancy coffee pot sat. He'd left her with a full, fresh pot, and one of her favorite mugs sitting beside it.

There was also a note.

She grinned again, picking the note up and scanning it once. Twice. It was short and sweet, and very to the point; a small, folded piece of paper with two words written on it.

 _Welcome home._

Signed with a single, cursive _S_.


End file.
